


Battle Without Honor Or Humanity

by The_Lionheart



Series: One Sword [10]
Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty, SCP Foundation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Interpretations of the Cipher Wheel, Angst, Auto-Cannibalism, Best Big Brother Stan, Bet You thought I forgot all those fun magical artifacts Ripley owns/created, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Cannibalism, Catholic McGuckets, Character Death, Child Neglect, Complicated Relationships, Cuban Ma Pines, Cussing, Deeply estranged sibling relationship, Deeply upsetting misunderstandings, Desperation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fire, Flashbacks, Gore, Henchmaniac death, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, It wasn't supposed to be 16 thousand words long, It's Weirdmageddon I'm not sure what to tag for, Memory Loss, Mobile Task Force Tau-4, No extended Mad Max Scene Sorry, Old Men Crying, One-Sword typical fight scenes, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Pinechez Cousin Squad, Prayer, Protective Older Brothers, Psychic Ma Pines, Psychological Horror, References to It's A Wonderful Life, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Shermie goes to therapy and still goes to this day, So take that as you will, Verbal Abuse, Vietnam Veteran Shermie Pines, Wakes & Funerals, Weirdmageddon, World's Okayest Brother Rick, but also because he really is one of the more sentimental ricks, extreme violence, he's not called softy rick for NO reason, i guess, i mean technically it's because he was wearing a shirt advertising soft-serve at one point, mean kids, petrification, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:02:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: "If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut."





	1. Rick and Ripley VS. The Past

"Grandpa Rick?"

"Yeah, kid?" Rick asks, and Morty clears his throat a little from the door to Rick's room. Rick turns, and the scarred blonde woman he met today on a beach in New Jersey- Ripley Savage, god-killer- is standing there, dripping wet and wrapped in Rick's bathrobe. She looks lost- she looks _scared_ \- and when Morty touches her elbow to lead her in she flinches. Rick stands, putting his tools down. "What's wrong?"

"Your, uh, your friend was, uh, stuck," Morty says awkwardly. He's holding her glasses in one hand, and his eyes are averted- god, this kid is good, Rick thinks vaguely, he's so much better than Beth and Jerry had any right to expect. "I thought- maybe- it might be like when I get stuck sometimes?"

"We'll see," Rick says, and Morty puts her glasses down on Rick's desk and flees. Smart kid, Rick thinks to himself. He leads the woman over to his desk chair and guides her until she sits, her eyes distant, tracking movement he can't see. Rick wonders how much Morty suspects or knows- if Morty is just being kind and caring because that's who he is, or if Morty sees the similarities between this stranger and the sister Doofus Rick's brought around a few times, or if Morty sees the similarities between Rick and Beth and this stranger. Rick wonders if Morty is expecting her to notice these similarities, too, if she's going to ask the questions that Morty's been wanting to ask.

And Rick- Rick doesn't know if he wants to answer them. He doesn't know if he wants to know the answers. It's been twenty-two years since he's seen his sister. He's not sure if this stranger could tell him anything he wants to hear.

"Hey," Rick says roughly, and she blinks, focusing on his face. Rick hesitates- he never figured out how to do this kind of thing until he started taking care of his grandkids and dealing with Morty's panic attacks. He's not sure if the same things will work for her.

He'd never helped his sister with this stuff, before. He'd never even really acknowledged it. He swallows dryly, reaches out- his hand is wrinkled and chemical-stained, arthritis setting into the joints- and pats the side of her face, and he sees it when she comes back to herself.

"Zoned out for a minute, there," he says, and she blushes, grimacing and ducking away from his hand.

"I thought- it was the mirror," she mutters, scrubbing the heel of her palm against her eye. "I thought I saw..."

She trails off, and he thinks he doesn't want to know, but he backs up and sits on the edge of his bed.

"You mentioned you, uh, you know another Rick Sanchez," he says, instead of asking something important. "He give you my number?"

"Hermit Rick," she confirms, folding her arms over her chest. "Yeah, I was there at this dojo with a weird time distortion thing with him, so time was both kinda- slower and faster there at the same time, real soft, you know? Hermit Rick's only thirty-five, though."

"Young guy," Rick comments, and she shrugs.

"Younger'n me. We got along real well," she tells him, rubbing the side of her head. "Hey, where are my glasses?"

"Desk behind you," Rick says, and she turns and puts them on. He picks up a multitool of his own design, fidgeting with it as he tries to figure out what it is he needs to say. "Is that the only Rick you know?"

"I've heard stories. A lot of you are wanted by the Federation, uh. All the Federations, I guess, technically," she adds. "Ford and I have wanted posters in some of them, too. I used to see yours up in the bounty offices."

"Ford Pines? Stanford Pines?" he persists, and she nods, vaguely amused. Rick hasn't really checked up on Pines for- well, not since he left the first time, spending bits and pieces of his life in various intergalactic camps and prisons before returning to Earth. He knows it's possible Pines could have made a working portal with what he remembers about the guy, he just... never really saw him doing it and keeping it to himself.

Just another way in which he, apparently, _severely_ misjudged Stanford Pines as a person, he thinks bitterly.

"What were you two wanted for?" he asks, and she shrugs.

"Theft, mostly. Overthrew a dictatorship or two together, but that wasn't really on their radar. Mostly we were in trouble for theft. Well, Ford was also being hunted by Bill Cipher, some sort of personal vendetta, but I usually got listed as an accessory to whatever he was in trouble for," she admits.

"That so," Rick says, giving his tool a twirl. "Hermit Rick doesn't ring any bells. I don't think I know him."

"He's nice," she says distantly. "He doesn't have kids, but he mentioned that most of you do, I guess that's where your, uh, your grandkids come from."

"That is where grandkids come from, yeah," he agrees, pulling a thin wire-shaped attachment out of the multitool.

"Yeah. He has a teenaged little sister, though," she continues, and the wire snaps in his hands. She looks over at him, blinking. "You hurt?"

"No, no, it's fine," he grumbles, standing and putting his bleeding thumb in his mouth for a moment. She crinkles her nose, vaguely amused. "So, uh... Savage?"

She nods.

"You traveled real light," he points out, and she shrugs. He clears his throat. "We could put you up for a few days, get you settled, make sure you're vaccinated against everything in this dimension, you know."

"Oh," she says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "I don't- I don't want to impose on you and your family, though, Sanchez, I just- I just-"

"There's a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in the lower left-hand drawer," he says abruptly. "They're Birdperson's but you look like you'd be able to wear'em. We'll have to grab you some clothes and a bag. Maybe a car. You should- you shouldn't be running around a dimension like this with nothing but a sword and the clothes on your back. It's not safe, i-it's- it's fuckin' stupid is what it is."

He heads for the door, and she stands, watching him go with an expression that's altogether too familiar.

"Um-" she starts, chewing on her lower lip. He stops, a hand on the doorframe.

"Are you-" he begins, flustered. "Do you... have a place to go after this?"

"Yeah," she says, looking down. "Maybe. Sorta. I dunno. Ford's not in this dimension yet, so, uh... so I guess I'm just gonna be, uh, fuckin' around. Maybe, um, maybe hit some places we've been in other dimensions, you know."

"How do you know Pines isn't in this dimension?" he asks, frowning- he remembers Pines, vaguely as a stiff, featureless presence in college, and in the late eighties as somebody he'd almost thought of as a friend when they weren't fighting or fucking. He has a hard time envisioning this stranger as being friends with a guy like that, and something she'd said on the beach is nagging at him, but he's not sure what.

"Aw, well. Ford gave me this thing on our anniversary, you know, this... thing where he can feel my heartbeat and I can feel his," she says, and Rick's skin crawls at the word anniversary, and it only gets worse. He thinks he does remember her saying something about being married to the guy, earlier. "We're not like, uh, traditionally romantic, I guess, kind of people, but, uh, it was... it's really nice."

"Oh, God," Rick mutters, vaguely nauseated as he tries to figure out how old she was when he and Pines were some kind of item and not liking the numbers he's coming up with. "Oh my God."

"I know, it's real sappy, but he..." She trails off, fingering the chain around her neck. "I dunno. I guess he loved me? I don't know how you're supposed to tell."

"You don't _know_?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes at him with an expression exactly like Summer's. "What do you _mean_ you don't know how to tell if somebody loves you?"

"I dunno, it's never come up before," she says defensively, hunching her shoulders a little. "I didn't... I don't know. I didn't know anybody before him. Why are you gettin' on my ass about this?"

He takes in a breath, but it doesn't make the feeling of being punched in the gut go away.

"Get dressed," he says, letting it out in a huff. "My daughter's making dinner tonight."

"Okay. Sorry," she says quietly, too small and subdued, too familiar. Thirty years ago, a little blonde girl shrinking in on herself, apologizing for being too loud, too nosy, too hungry, too needy. Rick would have thought three decades would have burned that out of a person. He's desperate to hope that maybe there's been a mistake, maybe he's wrong. Maybe she really is a stranger, and not the person he ~~left~~ \- he lost track of all those years ago.

"Just get some clothes on before Jerry comes home and starts making everything weird," he tells her, turning on his heel and looking for Morty.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Is everyone okay?" Ford asks, brushing the hair out of Morty's face to check his eyes with a penlight. "Anybody hit their head?"

"We're okay, Grunkle Ford," Mabel pipes up, clinging to Summer's hand. Dipper bops his head in a nod, his hair tousled. His hat's missing- it's too dark to find it on the ground, but Rick's pretty sure he's seen an entire rack of them in the gift shop.

He's not one hundred percent sure what happened- after a few awkward minutes in a room with every Pines _except_ the one he came to visit, there'd been a startlingly loud peal of lightning before a shockwave hit the house, rattling windows and knocking things off shelves. The power'd gone out right as Ford and Stan had burst into the room, tripping over their older brother and contributing to the chaos.

Ripley and Fiddleford are still out of the house, and Stan's being too chipper, misdirecting the kids' questions with the same skill he'd used back when Rick used to ask him about shit he didn't want to discuss. Ford won't look at Rick or at his brother, but he clears his throat.

"Richard-" he starts hesitantly.

"Ricardo," Rick corrects, sighing. "Keep track of your Ricks, Pines."

"Rick," Ford says meekly, running a hand over his mouth. "Something's happened in town, and I think... it would be best if you portalled everyone out of Gravity Falls."

Rick pulls out his portal gun, checking the readings with a sinking feeling.

"What?" the older Pines- Sherman- barks. "What happened? You said the doomsday shit was over with."

"I said _my_ doomsday sh- stuff- was over with," Ford says, squinting over at the kids to make sure they're still in the room and apparently unsure of whether he's allowed to speak freely or not. "I don't know what's happened to cause some kind of imminent end-of-world scenario, Sherm, and I'm going to get to the bottom of this, but you and Jess and the kids need- you need to go-"

"Where, pray tell, are we supposed to go if this is an end-of-the-world scenario, you knucklehead?" Sherman asks.

It's quiet in the dark for a few seconds.

"I can't portal anyone out of here, anyway. We're in a negative zone," Rick says quietly, doing the math nigh-instantly as he furiously types coordinates into his portal gun's panel. "The only way we're leaving this town is if we walk."

Stan and Ford exchange a near-identical look of dread. If Rick wasn't trying to figure out how many hours it will be before the space-time singularity at the epicenter of town engulfs the rest of the planet, he'd laugh and laugh.

"D-don't worry, though," Morty says hopefully. "Grandpa Rick's here, he's- he's got this under control, r-right, Rick?"

"That's right," Stan says quickly, pulling Dipper and Mabel in for a quick hug under the guise of pushing them over to be next to his brother and sister-in-law. "Rick here's the second-smartest guy I know, after Sixer-"

"Fuck off," Rick says automatically, watching in vague amusement as every other adult in the room bristles. "This thing is about nine miles away. In four and a half minutes it's going to spread to the house, and in seventeen minutes it's going to reach Portland. Los Angeles in half an hour."

"No, it's not," Ford says firmly, snapping out of his funk. "There's a barrier around the town, it's not going to extend past the limits of the town itself."

"Oh, good, so we're stuck here, and a wave of mutating extradimensional energy is going to be stuck in here with us, killing or mutating all of us in the next four minutes," Rick snarls, and Ford turns on him, fists at his sides. For a moment Rick thinks he's seeing the same man who threatened to slap the jowls off Bud Gleeful- and then Ford just deflates a little, a hand going to something hanging around his neck.

"Four of us working in tandem can get a makeshift barrier around the house," he says quickly. "Stan, Shermie, you two follow us. Unicorn hair would have worked better, but- hm, a blood sacrifice should be sufficient for now-"

"A what sacrifice?" Sherman asks flatly, and Rick huffs.

"This is what you get for mixing religion with your science, Pines," Rick says, and Ford doesn't rise to the bait like he'd hoped he would.

"Just tell us what to do, Ford," Stan says gently, and Ford looks down at his hand, big as it is, enveloped in Stan's meaty paws.

There's something they're not telling everyone else, and Rick doesn't like that they're keeping secrets at the end of the world, and he doesn't like where his mind goes when he tries to figure out what kind of secret it is.

"You need to draw this in your own blood on the outer wall. North, south, east, west," Ford says, shaking Stan loose to pull a pen and a pad of paper off of a desk, showing them a scraggly, hurried-looking rune. "Anybody need a knife?"

"I think everybody in this room carries a knife, Sixer," Stan jokes weakly, and Sherman waggles a pocketknife at him in agreement.

"Alright. Quickly. Get back inside before the wave hits," Ford mutters, peeling off in the direction of the back door. "I know I've got moonstones around here somewhere..."

The other two Pines brothers exchange a worried look and take off in opposite directions. Rick supposes that leaves him for the south side, then.

"It's gonna be alright," he hears Jess tell the kids. Summer pipes up with an agreement, too muffled to hear from the other room.

Rick thinks this feeling is fear- a kind of fear he hasn't felt since he came home thirteen years ago and found out that his teenaged sister hadn't been seen or heard from in five years- and, like then, it makes him pissed. He knows- vaguely- that this is probably the work of that alien overlord, Bill Cipher. Alien overlords he can handle; in the minutes since the shockwave nobody's mentioned that Ripley and Fiddleford were somewhere out there when it happened, and nothing has ever galled Rick more than _not knowing_ something that he wants to know.

He cuts into the pad of his thumb and draws the sigil- something almost eye-shaped, with little frilly lines on the sides- just as a sky the color of an oil slick spreads over the edge of the trees. He chances a single look back, standing inside the doorway, and something shimmers at the edge of perception, bubbling around the grounds.

He shuts the door and locks it; he's got questions for the Pines twins and he knows he's not going to like the answers.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Are- are we in Atlanta?" she asks suddenly, sitting up in the seat normally reserved for Morty.

"Eh, s-some suburb, but, uh- yeah, actually," Rick says, and Ripley Savage, god-killer, beams at him over her half-eaten Quarter Pounder With Cheese.

"I remember," she says proudly, and he raises his brows politely at her, unsure if he's feeling hopeful- unsure if he's allowed to feel hopeful- unsure if this stranger's memories could even mean anything to him. "I lived in a van with a guy over there, for a while."

"By the mall?" Rick asks dully, and she nods happily.

"Guy with a Van," she says around another mouthful. "Long hair. Musician. He liked rock and new wave. Some punk stuff."

"You guys lived in a van next to the mall," Rick repeats, and she shrugs, stuffing fries into her mouth.

"Egh, fink we moved aroun' a bit," she says, chewing obnoxiously.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he mutters, pulling the saucer into a parking space.

"Why not? You do," she says, swallowing. "Or, mm, other you does. Hermit Rick does. But I mean, he doesn't have a Beth, so I guess you're not all really the same as each other."

"Mm, that's too bad," Rick says, opening the door and standing. "We're all the same, but, uh, y-yeah, I guess we're all different, too."

"And that's fine, like, he doesn't have kids but you don't have a sister," she continues, watching him over her soda. He glances over at her, but he can't read the expression on her face, and there's enough of a glare on her glasses to hide her eyes. Rick fiddles with his sleeve as she gets out of the saucer.

"Actually," Rick says quietly, "most, uh, m-most Ricks had a sister at some point."

"Had?"

"Well," Rick hesitates, watching her come around the front over to his side. "Shit... shit happens, I guess."

"Yeah, I hear that," she agrees casually, putting her hands in her pockets and falling into step next to him. "I mean, did- did you have a sister?"

"Once," Rick says, and he knows it's her. She looks more like their mother than Doofus Beatriz does, more like their mother than Beth does. She gives him a polite smile, to let him know that she's listening, and he swallows dryly. "Yeah, uh, but... I haven't been in touch with her."

"That's too bad," she says softly. "Maybe she'd, you know, maybe she'd like to get to know you."

"Yeah?" he asks, and for a second- for a bright, solid second, he thinks that she must have noticed, that she must have realized, that she must know-

"Yeah, like- God, if I had a family out there I'd want to know'em," she continues, shrugging. "I mean, I know I had, uh, I had a mom and a dad, but I don't remember a lot about them, and I kind of-"

She chuckles nervously as they cross the threshold into the food court. "I kind of think they hated me."

"What makes you say that?" he asks, looking around for a mall directory.

"Little things," she mumbles, shuffling her feet. "I didn't know I needed glasses until I was thirty. It really- it really bothered me, because I remember being nineteen, and I remember not thinking I needed glasses at nineteen because I thought that's what the world was supposed to look like. I never bothered to learn to shoot well because I thought it was impossible to see that far, that people who could do it were unnaturally gifted. And then Ford comes along and notices me, right? He notices that I need... that I needed stuff, stuff I didn't even know I needed."

"Like glasses," Rick says quietly, glancing over at her, and she nods.

"Nobody ever noticed anything about me before him," she says quietly. "So... you know, maybe I do have a family out here and maybe I don't, but I must... I must not have mattered to them. Right? I mean- I thought- I know even when I was on my own out there in space or whatever, I always had this idea that family's the people who matter to you, and if you don't have anybody that matters to you, you must not have a family. And if you don't matter to anybody else, maybe..."

She trails off. Rick guesses she has a pretty fair point, there.

"G-guess you got a point there," he says, because his beautiful, magnificent brain refuses to work, replaying thirty-year-old conversations in his head. Doofus Rick acting shocked and disgusted that he left Bea with their parents. A little blonde kid watching him constantly, a heliotrope reaching for the sun.

"Hot Topic," she reads off the directory, peering over his shoulder. "That sounds like a newspaper place, not a clothing place."

"We're not going to Hot Topic," he tells her, and she huffs.

"I'm just sayin'." He motions for her to follow him, and they head to Sears in search of jeans and hiking boots and whatever the fuck else catches her eye today.

"Well-" Rick starts, and he knows he's a coward, that there's no way he isn't a coward after this. "Well- for what it's worth, Savage-"

He clears his throat. "My, uh... my parents were like that, you know? Kinda... shitty people. The kind of people who made sure their kids knew how much they owed 'em for the privilege of being alive. The kind of people who'd punch you in the face and then demand an apology for your face hurting their hand."

"Push you down the stairs and ask you why you're tryin' to make them look bad by throwing yourself down a flight of stairs," she suggests, and god, it does sound like something his mother would say. He swallows back the urge to do anything but grin wryly.

"Yeah, exactly. So... you know, maybe your family was pretty shitty, but... you know what I did?" he asks thinly.

"What?" she asks, eyes wide, still soaking up every word he says like he has all the answers, like he's the only person she'd ever have to listen to.

He doesn't say, I left them, because I didn't think that if something was too bad for me to take that it'd be too bad for a little kid to take. He doesn't say, I left them and I left you, and a part of me knew what would happen to you but I didn't think about it if I didn't have to see it. He doesn't say, I left you behind because you just weren't as important to me as you must have hoped, and I don't even know now if you still believed in me before you became the stranger you are today. He doesn't say, I left you with them, and I know that I was your age when I did that, and I'm afraid that you're going to ask why I left you with them and that I'm not going to have an answer that makes sense. He doesn't say, I left you with them and I don't know if you'd want anything to do with me if you knew that.

"I went out and got myself a better one," he says, glancing around until he spots a sign for athleticwear. "And... if an old bastard like me could deserve a better family, a fun god-killer like you could, too."

"Yeah?" she asks, grinning, and he forces a grin back.

"Y-yeah."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He finds two Pines men arguing as quietly as a Pines man can.

"Why won't he tell us what's going on?" Sherman asks, and Stan looks old- older than Rick, for once, and tired. He shakes his head, shrugging.

"He didn't tell me, either, Sherm, but, uh... I think he said we should prepare for the worst," Stan says, and shakes his head again.

"What does that mean?" Rick interrupts, startling them both into jumping. "What- what the f-f-fuck does the worst entail, Pines?"

Stan hesitates, looking over at his older brother, and Rick gives his shoulder a shove.

"Hey, knock it off," Sherman says sharply, and Rick shoots him a glare.

"What caused the singularity downtown if it wasn't your portal d-downstairs?" he demands, shoving Stan again. "Who _else_ has a portal in this town, Pines?"

"You wanna keep your hands to yourself, beanpole, I ain't above punchin' out a skinny fella," Sherman growls protectively, but Stan shoots Rick a look, half puzzled, half guilty. He knows where this is going but- just like old times, huh?- he can't keep up with the speed of Rick's anger or the trajectory of his thoughts. He knows what Rick's getting at, but he still doesn't know why, and that means he doesn't suspect- that she hasn't said anything about it, that either she didn't suspect enough herself to talk to him about it or that she didn't want to open that can of worms with him, and it's got to be the former, because she still treats Rick like they're friends, like she likes hearing from him, like she's interested in how he's doing.

Rick bares his teeth. "Savage had the portal sword with her, didn't she?"

Stan presses his mouth shut, glancing down. "We don't know it was her sword that opened that portal, but-"

"But nobody else around here had that kind of tech," Sherman murmurs, and if Rick weren't so irritated at having his dramatic statement stolen he'd be impressed at how all of the Pines men generally seem to be able to keep up. "So it means-?"

"It means-" Stan's hand scrubs over his mouth, and he winces as something rumbles past, close enough to rattle the windows again. "It means Ripley and Fiddleford would have been right there at the heart of whatever it is that just happened. It means we don't know what's happened to Wendy or Soos out there, but they're not protected against whatever's goin' on. At this point... at this point, I don't know if Ford thinks there's a surefire way outta this."

"Bullshit," Sherman snaps, once again beating Rick to it.

"It's all of Gravity Falls or the rest of the entire known universe, Sherm, I don't think Ford's gonna have that hard a time figurin' out priorities," Stan points out quietly.

"Bullshit," Rick says, mostly to make up for missing the chance to say it earlier. "It's not gonna come down to that. Where's the little bastard now?"

"What little bastard?" Stan asks, blinking, and Rick jabs a finger into the middle of his chest.

"Your dumbshit twin, moron," he snaps.

"You're about to get a mouthful of my fist, you punkass little egghead," Sherman barks, and Stan has to dive in to prevent Rick from kicking this brawny older man's ass.

"You think I won't wipe the floor with your ass, Grandpa?" Rick snarls.

"You're _both_ grandfathers, for fucksakes!" Stan snaps, and Rick shoves himself away from them both. Stan shoots him a dirty look. "He's downstairs, Rick, where the hell else would he be?"

"I'm gonna solve this problem in forty-five minutes," Rick says imperiously, straightening out his labcoat and turning sharply towards the kitchen. "After which you'll all be welcome to kiss my ass in gratitude."

"The basement door's in the giftshop, you pompous noodle man," Sherman calls after him. Rick gives Stan a long, slow, evil look, remembering that he could have probably avoided all this bullshit and taken the kids to Blips and Chitz this weekend instead of some country-ass smalltown apocalypse. Stan has the nerve to look pissed back.

Rick kicks his way into the basement, startling Ford from whatever he's doing at his workbench. "Come on, Pines, let's get this over with. What are we trying to accomplish here?"

"Well, the bomb won't work as long as there's an open portal into the Nightmare Realm, so that's off the table," Ford murmurs. Rick glances onto the ground, noting that the bomb does seem to be literally off of the table in question. "There is one thing... Experiment #618."

"Did you really number your experiments?" Rick interrupts. "F-f-followup, did you really only perform six hundred and eighteen experiments?"

"Yes, no, and actually, this isn't one of mine. Well, I mean to say- it's one of ours, just a different me who designed it," he amends, digging an oblong case out and opening it up to reveal a decently handsome long-range energy rifle. "This will only work if Bill's gained physical form in this dimension- but, then, why wouldn't he have? It's what he's been-"

"Alright, look, I'm not here to talk about your weird ex-boyfriend shit, Pines, I just want to end this shitty little doomsday before anybody else gets hurt," Rick says, and Ford gives him a pointed look. Rick throws his hands up. "What the fuck is your problem now, Pines?"

"I have met a couple of you, after all," he says, his tone precise. "Not that I'm saying I'm not grateful for any help you're willing to give, Rick, but this spurt of altruism isn't like you."

"Fuck off," he replies, and Ford just raises his eyebrows at him as he opens up his toolkit. Rick runs a hand through his thinning hair, feeling more attacked than he did when that seventy year old meathead Sherman started trying to act like a tough guy. "Look, isn't it enough that I'm stuck here with the kids in this mess? I want to get us out of it, that just... means helping you idiots out."

"I _know_ what the introduction of a wound in reality would do in conjunction with the natural weirdness field present in the valley, Rick," Ford says quietly, shrugging. "And I know that if you had to, you could have portalled yourself into a concurrent dimension with the kids where none of this happened." He tosses Rick a magazine- unfamiliar make, but there's a label on one side that looks like a mix of pidgin French and Galactic Federation Standard. "I need three of those bullets to be rigged together into a miniature engine."

"I have reasons for doing shit, Pines, believe it or fucking not," Rick mutters, opening the magazine and pulling out one of his own tools. "You, uh... you haven't mentioned that your wife and best friend are out in the middle of all this," he adds, because he's always believed that it's better to just rip the bandaid off. Ford pauses, his hand twitching- he can't put down what he's doing, but Rick'd bet a dollar he'd been about to grab that heartrate monitor jewelry Ripley'd been so proud of.

"I have to focus on the matter at hand first," he says stiffly, hunching his shoulders. "If recovery is possible, then, I will be able to devote my energy to locating Fiddleford and Ripley, or, if necessary, their... remains. But there won't be a point to recovery if there's nowhere safe to recover them _to_ , so. So let's... let's just focus on this, Sanchez."

"So you think they're dead," Rick says flatly, and Ford shakes his head so quickly that his glasses slip down his nose.

"No, no, not at- not at all, they might- they might be fine," he says, grasping at straws. His hands never shake as he dissects his beauty of a gun open on the table. "They could be in a state of suspended animation- Bill has always been good at that, it's something he enjoys, turning people into statues, so-"

"Right," Rick says quietly.

"-and of course, there's always the very simple answer, which is that somehow Ripley and her necklace were separated, which isn't- which isn't unheard-of, naturally," he continues raggedly. "And we don't know that her portal sword was used specifically to open into the Nightmare Realm, she could have been opening a portal to some other location, and the runoff energy used by Bill-"

"Alright, Pines, I get it, you want to believe your family's alive out there," Rick says, and Ford goes quiet for a moment.

"Yes," he agrees, "but you want me to believe it, too. It matters to you that everyone's alright- not just you and the kids, but-"

"Don't try to call this something it's not, Pines, I'm not one of the sentimental Ricks who thinks of the Pines clan as family."

"You," Ford says slowly, "have been a presence in this family for a long time."

"Is that how you're going to refer to me screwing your brother through most of 1987 and '88?" Rick snaps.

"I think you know that's not what I'm referring to," Ford says, and Rick tenses.

"You don't know what you're talking about. Needlenose pliers," he adds, and Ford hands a pair over.

"You know, there's a dimension where we're all kids?" Ford asks abruptly. "I mean, you have your standard- we're all babies for some reason dimension, a dimension where pizza sits on phones ordering humans over chair-calls, post-apocalyptic sludge monster dimensions where we all died in the fifties-"

"Right, right, old news, Sherlock," Rick mutters.

"-but I'm wondering how it is that all these infinite variables and possibilities exist, but your granddaughter manages to look like Ripley did at that age, if Ripley were more of a strawberry blonde," Ford says, and Rick snorts.

"First of all, Summer's a redhead, that's not strawberry blonde."

"Semantics," Ford says under his breath.

"Second of all, you didn't meet Savage before she was what, twenty-nine, thirty? So-"

"Mindscape sharing," Ford interrupts. "She didn't lose _everything_ , Rick. I've seen her- she must have been eighteen- in that van she used to talk about."

Rick raises his eyes to meet Ford's, as he peels the casing off the third bullet. "So?"

"So don't you think you're the only person who hasn't thought it at least once?" Ford asks, and Rick puts the tool down, massaging the corner of his jaw.

"...Pines, this isn't a conversation I want to have," he says simply, and Ford looks down, slipping a wire into place.

"She hasn't said anything about it," he says. "My presumption is that she hasn't met enough of you to know that your behavior towards her- and towards us by extension- is unlike how most Ricks act."

"Yeah, well maybe she should have met more of me, because maybe more of her would have come home by now," Rick says pointedly. "And maybe most of us were either in prison or evading capture while she was a kid, and couldn't have possibly done anything about her situation. And maybe enough of us came home from the war and found a corpse instead of a sister, enough that we stopped looking. And maybe none of this is any of your goddamn fucking business, Pines, so why don't you just hand me that electrical tape so we can assassinate the alien overlord who might or might not have murdered your friends, huh?"

"I have no qualms with putting this conversation aside until Bill has been eliminated," Ford says, popping the tiny new engine into the fuel cell of the energy rifle. "You know who you should ask for advice on this, once this is all over?"

"I'm not asking anybody for fucking advice, Pines," Rick grumbles.

"Shermie. Shermie's great at fixing destroyed sibling relationships," Ford says, giving him a pathetically hopeful smile. Rick points at one of the partially-dismantled portal's turbines.

"Why don't you and I turn one of those into a rapid-fire Banality Cannon and leave the family something to play with while we're off murdering sentient geometry?"

"Rick Sanchez," Ford says, giving his shoulder a stiff, awkward pat. "I thought you'd never ask."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She jokes that the last time she stayed with a Rick Sanchez this long, she ended up cutting her own face off and killing a chaos god. Rick's pretty sure that the story she tells when the kids demand an explanation for a statement like that is extremely censored, and he isn't sure how he feels about what she must assume about them, about him, to feel the need to censor it.

It's the sixth night that she's stayed on the couch- honestly, she's a pretty good guest. She can't help the kids with their homework but Summer's getting more confident with her own driving after she and Rick have given Savage a few lessons for the basics. She gets along with Morty- she likes Morty, and Morty likes her, and whatever else he is, that kid is usually a decent judge of character when he's not trying to make an impression on someone. She's backed up and corroborated half of Rick's bullshit stories, and the entertainment value of watching her gently conning the kids into believing that she's not only been to a dimension where Jurassic Park really happened but that it was a dinosaur-lover's utopia is worth every penny Rick's spent in getting her a couple changes of hard-wearing, comfortable clothes and a sturdy bag for all her shit.

An infinite number of channels, but when she and Rick sit down to watch TV she puts it on a showing of _Planes, Trains, and Automobiles_ that's almost twenty minutes past the start.

"I love this movie so much," she says dreamily, sitting against his side, and fuck, he's not going to bitch about the movie after that.

They get to enjoy most of it- Steve Martin's finally realizing that John Candy's homeless- when Jerry clears his throat from the door to the dining room.

"So-" he starts.

"We're- it's literally the most emotional scene-" Savage says, visibly annoyed. "I mean- come on, man."

"No, no, it's cool, just, you know. Wondering when you're going to be getting out of my house," he says, and she blinks, taken aback.

"You're not exactly in a hurry to redecorate the living room, are you, Jerry?" Rick asks, and she shrinks away from his side, flashing them both a brittle grin.

"Oh, uh, you know, actually? I was planning on heading out tomorrow, uh, you know. This whole... backpacking across the country to go to check out my husband's place in Oregon... thing." She gets up, and Rick gets up, too. "I didn't mean to impose on your, uh, your hospitality this long, I just had a bunch of my ribs broken recently-"

"You _what_?" Rick asks, whipping his head around.

"-and I just sort of, you know, needed to make sure I wasn't gonna fuck 'em up more," she continues, ignoring Rick's question. "But, uh, thanks. Jerry. I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Well, great! See, Rick? Maybe the next time you bring some kind of space transient into my house you'll remember how easy it is to ask them to leave," Jerry says blithely, clapping Rick's shoulder on his way out of the room.

"I didn't mean to overstay and make it awkward," she says quietly, and Rick turns to her, fuming.

"No, no. You didn't. I wouldn't have invited you to stay if it was going be awkward," he tells her.

"I mean, it _is_ awkward, so... so that's fine! I'll head out tomorrow morning, you know, first thing. And I have my new, uh, my new fake ID, and everything, so... you know, I can start... using it."

"Yeah. Y-yeah, you know, I can give you a ride to your first stop if you want, I know you... I know you were trying to get this done as some kind of... journeying thing, hitch-hike, whatever, but-" he offers, and she shrugs.

"Thanks, uh... we'll see."

The credits are rolling. He pulls out the sleeper sofa, tossing a fresh blanket out of the dryer onto it, and she runs her hand over it, like she can steal its warmth that way, and he knows. He knows that she's not going to wait until tomorrow morning.

"Hey, uh... Rick, I-" she starts, rubbing the side of her neck. "I know you know I can't pay you back yet, but, uh- I will, alright?"

"Don't worry about it, Savage," he says, and she shrugs.

"I'll pay you back," she reiterates. "I just gotta get my shit figured out, but- but I will. I don't... I don't like to leave debts unsettled."

"I get it," he sighs. "I'm not exactly hurting here, Savage, just... get all your shit figured out first, alright?"

"Okay." She looks distantly at the blanket, and he wonders how many nights she's been cold, how many cold nights she's got in front of her if she leaves. He wonders if he could make her stay.

"Hey, uh, Bea-" he starts. She doesn't look up right away, but when she does she makes sure he knows she's listening, that she's not ignoring him, and he-

-and he's an old man, and he's a coward, and he doesn't want her to leave this house knowing that he's to blame for so much of the shitshow her life's been. He reminds himself that he hasn't seen his sister in twenty-two years and that this person is a stranger, but he also knows that if there's even a remote chance of keeping this person in his life, even a little bit, he doesn't want to make his old mistakes. He doesn't want to drive her away any more than he has to.

"-be, uh... be... be careful, out there," he finishes lamely, waving one bony, arthritic hand. "Just because it's not raining blood and shit out there doesn't mean this dimension's not dangerous or full of fuckin' monsters, alright?"

"I'll keep it in mind, Sanchez. Thanks," she says, smiling thinly.

He hears the front door open and close a long time later, a couple of hours before dawn. He doesn't go to the window to watch her sneak out in the darkness; he spends the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling of his room and wondering if he could have stopped her.


	2. Weirdmageddon

The kids being here is the worst part, Jess thinks to herself, and a fresh wave of disgust for this so-called demon rolls through her. She's aware of how terrible the world can be- how shitty it can be to kids, especially- she was a pediatrician for thirty-five years, she knows better than most- and yet it hits her like a new and awful revelation, every time. The existence of such a creature as this Bill offends her to her core; the fact that he's turned his vile attentions towards her family is downright infuriating. Her grandbabies shouldn't have had to know things like this could happen, and yet- here they are, her little pumpkins, understanding and dealing with the situation as best they can. She couldn't be prouder.

"There's gotta be some kind of spell that can help," Dipper is muttering to himself, while Summer looks over his shoulder at the handwritten journal in his hands. There are another two open on his lap, along with a notebook and pens. "Something... something here that can help."

"Let's look at stuff that helped you guys before," Summer says confidently, and he gives her a brief, adoring look before turning back a few pages.

"I don't know if this is going to be any use, Mabel," Morty is muttering, his hands clumsy around a borrowed pair of knitting needles- Mabel's are clicking rapidly, something red and fluffy already beginning to take shape.

"If this is an apocalypse, it's gonna be the most stylish and comfortable apocalypse anybody's ever seen," she says brightly, giving him a smile. "You're doin' great, see!"

It probably can't be turned into a sweater, but maybe what he's making can be salvaged into a scarf or a cowl. Jess takes note of it for later, and also makes a mental note to reward her little girl later for helping keep the little Sanchez boy preoccupied and calm. Stan enters the room, a baseball bat in one hand, and she sighs- now, she muses, if only something could be done about all these jittery, anxious adults wandering around the cabin.

"Stan?" Jess asks, frowning as he ignores her to peek out the window. "Stanley."

"Yeah, what?" he asks, drawing the curtains.

"Watch the kids, I gotta tinkle," she says, standing up and heading towards the commode.

"You gotta- wait up," he says, trailing after her, and she gives him a pointed look.

"Yer not followin' me into the john, Stan. Stay here with the kids." Jess doesn't watch to see if he wanders along like a lost puppy- not that he's never done that, but she's at the point where she _will_ slam a door in his face if he comes along, and she's pretty sure she's telegraphed this information well enough to keep Stan at bay.

The lights in the bathroom flicker on- turning on for a second, going bright violet, then flickering back to their normal color for a few seconds before going dark again. She resolves to see if Ford can tell her how to fortify whatever it is protecting the house from whatever it is that's going on outside- clearly, if the lights are being affected like this, it's not a perfect seal. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, something unsettling going on behind her reflection- like starlight in motion- which she refuses to acknowledge. She splashes water onto her face and points a stern finger at herself.

"You're supposed to be retired," she says flatly. Her reflection winks.

Jess frowns deeply, drying her hands off on a pale-colored towel. She can see the kids' toothbrushes in a glass on the left of the sink, and in a glass on the right, two kid-sized toothbrushes that look like little green aliens.

She doesn't know Ripley very well yet, but she knows these toothbrushes are that woman's doing, and the idea makes her smile. There are drawings in Fiddleford's guest room, half the precise expressiveness of her granddaughter's art, half the unbridled creativity of her little brother's designs, and that, too, makes her smile. Having Ford and Fiddleford back, having Stan approaching wholeness, the welcome surprise of Ford's wife- she couldn't have imagined a better way to spend her retirement than this expansion of her family, and here this so-called demon is, _fucking it all up._

She exhales, crossing herself quickly and shutting her eyes.

"Hullo, Jesus," she says, frowning a little. "I'm aware we haven't spoken much outside'a Christmas and Easter and, you know, your general thank-yous. I assumed you'd be around if I needed ya, and for the most part, I can't complain." She thinks for a moment. "Thanks for the family and for the life I have, as usual."

"Anyway!" she continues. "I'm not sure if this little man who's been tormenting my loved ones is the devil or a devil or, you know, just some kind of punkass fairy or something, Lord, but if he's goin' around callin' himself a demon, please help me teach that little shit why the movies always calls us when it's time for the exorcism. Thanks in advance and Amen."

She crosses herself again, opening her eyes. It's just light enough to fix her hair, so she does.

Feeling better already, she heads back out to see if she can chase down her husband and maybe a brother-in-law or two. She doesn't find Ford or Rick- which is concerning, to say the least- but Shermie's skulking around the gift shop, fingering the blinds like a cartoonish old miser watching for kids to shoo off his lawn.

"Don't tell me you're fine," she says by way of greeting, putting an arm around his back. "How are you holdin' up, hon?"

"I do not like Stanley's choices in ex-boyfriends," he mutters darkly, and she gives him a nudge. "And it looks like things're gettin' real, hm... orange an' yet simultaneously purple out there. Orange-purple? Purngle."

"That's another one for Mabel's book," she muses, spotting movement at the treeline before a pack of animals- three deer with tangles of green vines and silver chains hanging from their antlers, a pair of rabbits, and a fox wearing a dirty blue vest- breaks through into the open, darting for safety in a rush. They don't even look at the cabin as they pass by, disturbingly human expressions of fear and desperation on their little faces. Shermie's arm tightens around her as they watch the animals in silence, before losing sight of them around the corner of the porch.

"I sorta didn't think this is how this weekend'd go," he says, and he shoots her such a woebegone look that she can't help but laugh, seeing the same goofy boy she'd met almost forty-eight years ago. "Don't laugh at me, Jessenia Pines, this ain't some comedy routine!"

"The gals in the Rotary club said I should try to spice our love life up," she giggles helplessly. "Seems we went a little too far. Maybe we could stand to put some of the spice back."

"Don't," he grins weakly, tweaking her nose. "It's dead serious."

"It is, isn't it," she agrees, and their smiles fade a little. "Well... at least now we know."

"Know what, cuddlefish?" he asks, and she sighs, looking back at the window.

"Well, I was gonna say we know what's happened to our respective missin' brothers all these years, but, ah, is it just me or is that half the cast of _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_ comin' straight our way?"

"What the dickens?" Shermie turns and frowns- a couple of minotaur-lookin' fellas, a couple of unicorns, a bunch of weird little guys, and something that is altogether too many fucking bears are approaching on foot, and when the Bears Thing sees them looking it raises its paws in surrender.

Or supplication. Jess exhales through her nose.

"Fetch your brothers, Sherm, I think these guys think they're comin' inside," she says, and he scowls powerfully before turning and booking it for the door to Ford's "Secret" Basement in the corner of the room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She's been a part of this family for nearly her entire adult life, which is why it doesn't surprise her when a trilling unicorn- an actual, iridescent, rainbow-maned, animal biology be damned _unicorn_ \- grovels at Stanford's feet and begs for shelter, telling him that it'll do anything he wants. Well- no, that part is actually a huge surprise- the part that doesn't surprise her at all is that he just smiles grimly and pulls out a pair of kitchen shears in response.

It's not safe enough to go out and do whatever Ford would have liked to do with the huge pile of unicorn hair he ends up with, but between Jess and Mabel, they have four appropriately-sized crochet hooks in this house, and Morty's a quicker study at crocheting than he is at knitting. Ford and Stan take turns with the fourth hook, trading off to check their supplies and gather information from the- Jess sighs deeply every time she thinks the phrase- magical woodland creatures. The other two kids and Shermie get put to work wrapping silver wire and unicorn hair around moonstone beads and attaching them to the cuffs and collars Team Crochet makes- Summer's apparently made wire-wrapped jewelry before, but Dipper, bless him, is starting to get the knack and is really trying to impress the girl.

Rick, of course- why of course? In a day of knowing him Jess thinks she knows this joker's modus operandi- has no part in constructing the reinforcements for the cabin or the personal protections for the cabin's current residents. When he finally does join the rest of the family, he's carrying an enormous gatling-gun looking monstrosity under one arm.

"No," Shermie says flatly.

"Leaving me to do all the goddamn work, Pines," Rick grouses, tossing it onto the couch.

"No!" Shermie snaps, bouncing to his feet. "Basic gun safety, you little twerp!"

"It wouldn't do anything to anybody in here," Rick replies scathingly, waving an arm. "It's something Fordsy and I cooked up downstairs-"

"It's an anti-chaos-field generator!" Ford says, lifting his head from his notebook. "It literally- well, not literally literally- it figuratively strips its target zone of any chaos energy or magic, rendering the area completely mundane! It's set for a Gravity Falls baseline so it's not really a danger to the local fauna, of course. It'll probably turn your standard Borpocian into an anteater wearing a hat, though."

"You're all taking a safety class when this is over! All three of you buffoons!" Shermie says sternly, and Stan raises both his hands.

"What'd I do!?"

"What didn't you do, Lee? You darn near opened a hole in the fabric of reality, you screwed around letting the kids date and getting assaulted by cursed mummies-"

"Dummies, dear, the wax dummies," Jess chimes in, and Shermie points a finger at her in agreement.

"Yes, the wax dummies! You didn't notice the kids snuck out to break into a haunted convenience store that ended up gettin' burned to the ground, Lee, that's a big safety no-no!"

"Ripley's the one who burned it down!" Stan protests, and Rick snorts in what is very clearly surprised glee. "Anyway, Ford and Ripley don't believe in the Buddy System, they're the ones who need safety classes!"

"You don't believe in the Buddy System?" Shermie asks hotly, shooting Ford a glare. "Stanford Pines, are you sixty-two years old and don't believe in the Buddy System?"

"Holy shit, I need a minute," Rick mutters quietly- Jess gives him all of ten seconds to himself before she stands, too, picking up one of the newly-made unicorn protection bracelets and following him out of the room.

Rick gives her a look in the hallway, coolly eyeing her in a way that she's sure has served him well when it comes to intimidating people.

"Dr. Sanchez, I presume," she says mildly, holding up the bracelet. "You're not gettin' out of wearin' one of these, you know."

"I don't need fairytale mumbo-jumbo to fight chaos aliens, lady," he says, and she clicks her tongue at him.

"That's Dr. Lady to you, thank you very much," she tells him, and he rolls his eyes. "You're not very popular with most people, are you?"

"Excuse me for not appealing to the lowest common denominator," he mutters, and she wags a finger at him.

"Be good. We're going to be facing a near-death experience together, I expect us to get along," she says, and he gives her one slow blink before raising his brow.

"Let me guess, Stanford told you the gist of the plan and you just had to come along to babysit? Well, it's not-"

"You're incredibly rude," she marvels, snagging his wrist mid-gesture and swiftly wrapping the bracelet around it. "That's not it at all, sweetheart. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you and Stanford plan on confronting this... thing that's going on out there, does it? No, it doesn't," she says, in her best talking-to-toddlers voice.

"Ugh, stop that-" he says, and she smiles faintly at him.

"The cabin's been secured as well as the two of you know how, meaning there's nothing I could do here that could prevent harm comin' to my family. But the odds of our loved ones needin' emergency medical care are extremely high, and as swift an' cunning as the two of you may be, I have a feeling none of the score of doctorates you two have are for practicing medicine on human beings. How far off the mark am I, Doc?"

He glares down at her, eyes narrowing as he processes what she's said. "I don't need your help, lady. I don't even need Stanford's help-"

"I can see you're what my dear Ma'd have called the prideful sort," she says, in the kindest tone possible. "I understand. But when you and Stanford are shootin' in opposite directions and someone's bleedin' out between you, it'll be easier knowin' that somebody who's looked death in the face and knocked its teeth out is there, tendin' to your loved one's wounds."

"My- okay, listen, just because some things incite a chemical alteration in the human brain-" he starts, and she shushes him, already tired of it.

"Pumpkin, believe it or not, I'm seventy years old, I've actually heard whatever bullshit you're about to spew in order to sound like a tough lil guy, so why don't we cut the crap and pretend you didn't make the attempt," she says, giving him a pat. "I know you're worried about your family here and your family out there, but you're gonna have to put your big boy pants on while we make this happen."

He doesn't move, and Jess watches him patiently, with a practiced smiling stare that had awkward teenagers opening up about the embarrassing questions they were starting to wonder about back in her pediatric practice. She's not sure what it says about Rick- or, for that matter, Stanley- when something she used to do to make literal children talk to her works on a sixty-two-year-old man.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says finally, in a sullen little-boy tone.

"Hon, two days ago I learned that my long-lost little sibling who ran away at seventeen is not only alive, but is in fact livin' with my husband's long-lost little sibling who ran away at seventeen. Even if I didn't have almost fifty years of navigatin' the murky depths of emotional opaqueness that is the Pines Family Dysfunction Junction, I'm basically an expert by now at detecting this whole long-lost little sibling gig." She catches his eye, and gives his cheek a pat.

"It's the nose and eyes, hon. That and you carry your hands the same way, your grandbabies don't do it as much."

"She doesn't remember me," he says stiffly, and Jess quirks her mouth to one side in a bitter grin.

"And what, you think Fiddleford remembers _me_?"

He folds his arms, and she sighs. She's somewhat up to here with the petulant old men in this house.

"Twenty minutes into town, rescue our distressed family members, twenty minutes back. Stanley and Sherman babysit the kids for an hour, and we come up with a permanent plan as soon as we're all together. And either my services are unneeded- which is the goal here- or they are very much needed, in which case you'll be glad to have me." She spreads her hands, a little piece of funny showman's razzle-dazzle she thinks she picked up from Stan in the nineties.

He winces and rolls his eyes again- she's pretty sure he just recognized Stan in the action, too.

"Whatever," he says, fingering the bracelet a little before letting it fall against his bony wrist. "We should be leaving in five minutes."

"I'll go put on my good running shoes, then," she says mildly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When she'd said twenty minutes to get to town, she'd genuinely believed it, but the sun keeps changing size, shape, and color in the sky, and her watch says it's been an hour, and when she looks back she can still see the cabin's sign, MYSTERY HACK glittering between the living trees. She checks her watch again, and it says it's five minutes before they left.

"Do these personal protection fields work on our gewgaws and accessories, boys?" she asks mildly, shaking her wrist despite her watch being digital. "Or is the watch unaffected, it's just the passage of time that's gone chunky?"

"Time," Rick grunts.

"Most certainly the passage of time," Ford agrees, giving her an uneasy glance. He'd started to voice his objections to her coming along at the cabin, but he'd been even easier than Rick when it came to bullying him into accepting her help. She gives his shoulder a pat, which he acknowledges with a nod. "Once we're closer to the epicenter of the irregularity, we'll need to move with the utmost stealth and caution."

"Sure, sure," she says, hiking her knapsack full of medical supplies higher onto her back- well, it's Dipper's knapsack, but the boy had volunteered it immediately, the sweetheart. Of course, he'd also volunteered to come along and carry it for her, the little devil.

"You're gonna see some fucked up stuff in there, you know," Rick warns casually.

"Oh, I'm sure," she says blithely.

"Not the kind of fucked up shit you're thinking of, Pines, I-I mean some real-"

"Rick, I saw The Thing in theaters, I'm not walking into this thinking we're in for a summer's picnic."

"Like extremely fucked up-"

"Rick, I worked in a pediatric ward for over three decades. I'm almost certain that half of what you're going to warn me about is not as fucked up as what I had to see when I was patching those children up, sometimes with the person who done it to them looming over my shoulder," she says, and that does shut him up.

Overhead, a screaming bird is hit by a blast of blue-white energy and it turns inside-out and back again, something shimmering and gray falling from its eyes and mouth before it turns to stone. The three of them scatter, Ford shielding Jess as the statue lands with a crash to the forest floor.

Jess brushes a handful of the glittery stuff off of her shoulders and out of her hair- fish scales, she's pretty sure. She gestures mutely at Rick and he rolls his eyes again in silence.

"We must be pretty close," Ford whispers into her ear, just loud enough to be heard over her own heartbeat. "Taking potshots at local wildlife for fun."

He doesn't need to say the bastard's name for Jess to know. She gives Ford's hand a squeeze and nods at him. Rick creeps warily towards them, and she's struck with an image- not quite a memory, no- of Shermie moving like that, especially in the first few years after he came home for good, of an extended wariness even when he was relaxed, an ear cocked to the barely-audible sound of their old refrigerator's hums and clanks. She doesn't know if she likes this man much- it's certainly too early to say- but she wonders if he knows how much of his story is visible to someone who knows what to look for.

"We need to find cover," Ford says, stroking his chin. "This is going to be exceedingly difficult."

Rick gestures to the west, shushing Ford and adding an utterly unnecessary middle finger to his efforts. They head that way and Ford stops, tapping his ear- it occurs to Jess that Ford's hearing must be better than her's and Rick's, even minutely, because in a second or two they both hear it.

Distant, human, sobbing cries. Something about it is dreadfully familiar, although she can't quite place why.

She's grateful none of the kids are present for this.

Ford and Rick seem frozen in place, and she gives them both a light tap to get their attention. She mimes shooting a rifle, walks her fingers in a circle, and stacks her fists over one another.

"We're not too close to speak and I have no idea what you're trying to tell me," Ford murmurs.

"If yer gonna," she mimes shooting the rifle again, "we need to circle around and get up somewhere high."

"That last one was climbing a ladder," Rick says, sounding tired, and she nods. "Didn't we pass a church with a belltower on the way home from that albino cultist child's house?"

"I-I think so-" he says, glancing to the side. "I- Stan would know, to be honest, I-"

"Hon, go with your first impression," Jess says. "Do you remember seeing one this summer?"

"I- yes," he says, straightening out his jacket. Why he felt the need to wear one in the first week of August, she doesn't know, but it seems to give him something to focus on. "Follow me."

The sounds get worse as they exit the trees and make their way through back alleys and around buildings- high-pitched, gibbering laughter and shrill noises of wordless glee bouncing off all the concrete starts to put Jess's teeth on edge, and she catches herself clenching her jaw a time or two before she remembers that she doesn't want to have to go to a dentist after this.

Ford only speaks once before they're in the stairwell of the little Methodist church he'd been thinking of- "Keep your eyes down, don't look," said soft against her cheek- and Rick doesn't speak at all, not until he gets to the top of the stairs first, and sees whatever it is they're looking for.

"Well, shit," he mutters.

"What is it?" Ford asks, already opening the case on his back to reveal a gun that looks like one of Jake's Halo video game guns. Rick makes a motion to stop her, but not enough of one to actually prevent Jess from moving forward and peeking over the edge of the railing.

The yellow of the thing hurts her eyes- that's the first thing she sees, an enormous shining beacon, all mathematically precise lines and angles. It occurs to her that this sort of thing is what the old biblical scholars meant by the brilliant geometry of angels, and that this thing surely could be mistaken for one. There are odd monsters and creatures flanking it and some kind of dark stone pyramid in the sky over it, but the triangle is the thing to see.

The second thing she sees is the most important thing. It's Fiddleford, looking impossibly small at the feet of one of the monsters, and she can't see too good from up here but she's pretty sure he didn't get an urge to dye his white beard red today. She exhales; she can't see well enough whether it's his nose or his mouth that's bleeding. He's on the ground. He's wearing the charming blue shirt he put on earlier, the soft beige golf shorts he'd walked out in stained dark all down his left side, the gray-blue rubber crocs on his feet splattered with something dark. He's on the ground.

The third thing she sees is that he's not alone- a young fella about Ripley's age, maybe- a young fella who looks a whole hell of a lot like Amanda Rivera did, come to think of it- is behind him, arms around his shoulders, teeth bared under an unmistakable McGucket nose. Behind and around him are other people- a broadset bearded man, an older woman in grease-stained pink, a crowd of at least a dozen, maybe two. She's grateful that her little brother's not alone, and grateful that she can't see fear on his face from this far away, and furious as well.

"You got a plan to put a stop to this bullshit, hon?" she asks tightly, and she sees the fourth thing: Ford's wife is not in the town square with the rest of them.

"I'm only going to get one shot," Ford says quietly, peering around her shoulder and paling as he takes it all in.

"If I- if this works," he says slowly, fingers tightening around the rifle. "It will cause Cipher's physical form to return to a pure-energy state so quickly that it will burn him out of reality. And- and doing so will collapse any pocket dimension that he's created- eliminating anything inside."

Jess turns to look at him, unsure of the necessity of this introduction, but worried about the tone in which he says it, the look on his face before his features start slotting into place, emotion shutting down.

Rick gives a snarling hiss. "Are you f-fucking asking me for _permission_?"

"No," Ford says distantly, a hand going to the pendant around his neck- it's quite handsome, a large star sapphire that she'd carefully wrapped a unicorn-hair braid around at his request, the moonstone bead dangling near the top of the pendant. "No. I know you can't... I know you can't give me permission, Rick."

"What are you two talking about?" Jess whispers desperately.

"And I realize that I cannot hope for forgiveness," Ford murmurs, tucking the necklace away.

"What are you _talking_ about?" Jess demands, and Ford shushes her with a gesture.

"Back away towards the stairs, you two. If there's any blowback from the gun, I don't- I can't-"

"Fuck off, Pines."

"Be quiet," Ford says flatly, lining the shot up as the triangle starts waving around appendages and shouting, sparks waving from its void-black limbs. With every flick of its- hands?- waves of light like glitter vomit rush out, growing and spreading with every gesture. A mailbox sprouts legs and a tongue, skittering away into the darkness. Asphalt rips itself up and spirals out, breaking windows. The shutters on the church tower groan in a sudden, sucking wind.

"Ford, wait," Jess hisses- the triangle waves a hand again, and she feels the wave hit her square in the chest, knocking her back. Rick catches her- she can see the faint outline around him, and she's glad she fought to put the unicorn charm bracelet on him. He doesn't look any worse for wear. The giant bell shudders to life, though, unprotected as it was when the chaos wave hit. Ford's back is to it, though, and she can see him squeeze the trigger from here.

"Ford, no-" Jess tries to warn, and the bell shakes itself alive with an ugly peal of laughter.

Ford's shot goes high.

"Run now," Ford breathes out, and Rick still has his arms around her, dragging her back to the stairwell as the thing outside screams.

"WELL, WELL, WELL, AND HERE I THOUGHT TODAY COULDN'T GET ANY _**BETTER!"**_ Bill shrieks, and Jess sees a flash of gold before the top of the belltower is reduced to rubble, pinning Ford in place.

"Go!" Ford gasps, and Rick won't let her go. It occurs to her, sharp and deep: Ford knew or at least believed that killing Bill would kill his wife; and Bill is still alive, and Ford-

-Ford is trapped where Bill will find him, and what little she knows of this thing tells her that this is a nightmare for him, that everything about today is a nightmare for him.

Rick is bone-thin and wire-taut, and she's ten years his senior and soft, and he can't carry her far but he carries her through the urge to fight to stay with Ford, because she knows that this failure doesn't mean the end, but she can't see it through if she is caught. She and Rick hurry down the church stairs in a clatter, the noise muffled by the sound of falling wood and masonry. They make it to the next alley and the cover of an upended dumpster in time to see Ford land in a cloud of debris.

"Stanford!" Fiddleford cries- thank God, Jess thinks- and Ford moves, dust settling off his hair and clothing, coughing hoarsely- "Fiddleford," he wheezes- thank God, Jess thinks again.

"Say, Sixer," Bill says brightly, wagging a finger at Ford. "That's an interesting containment field you're wearing! Say hello, everybody, to the man who made all this possible-"

The noise that rises up from the creatures and apparitions around them makes Jess want to throw something. It's awful- like a room full of chimpanzees on amphetamines- like a train full of clowns derailing. She is aware that they're cheering, applauding her brother-in-law.

Rick's hand goes to her shoulder, and his finger is over his mouth. She nods. Yes. She knows.

Ford takes a swing and Bill flits effortlessly out of the way, tittering as he goes. Fiddleford lurches to Ford's side and Ford grasps him so tightly that Jess isn't even sure he knows he's doing it.

"As most of you fleshbags have probably guessed, this whole apocalypse wouldn't have been possible without my _favorite_ little fleshbag- give us a smile, Fordsy!" it trills, a hand the size of Ford's head reaching down and giving his hair a tousle, rough enough to send him staggering. Jess's heart jumps into her throat, and Rick's hand tightens on her shoulder, as if warning her not to react. "Say, last chance on a great offer, Sixer- join us! You'd fit right in, what with your whole physical deformation and fundamentally inhuman personality and all!"

"Fuck you, Cipher!" Ford spits out, crowding Fiddleford behind him. "I'll never join you, you monster! I know-"

"Yeah, yeah, you know my weakness, right Brainiac?" Bill doubles in size, his one snakelike eye ablaze with pure malice. "Wanna know something funny, Sixer? _**I know yours, too!"**_

Ford doesn't flinch as Bill's arm shoots out, a blast of fiery light rushing towards him- and then, breaking every rule of physics, it loops around him, and hits Fiddleford in the chest with a noise like gunfire.

"Stanf-" Fiddleford cries out, going stiff and bright, one hand outstretched. Jess feels her knees buckle, can't hear anything over the agonized curses erupting from Stanford's mouth, can't hear anything over the howling laughter of that thrice-damned triangle.

"No," Jess sobs, crushing her hands to her mouth.

Rubble from the demolished belltower surrounds Ford in a rough sphere, and the triangle raises a hand, drawing it closer. "I guess it's time to put the toys away, huh?"

It sprouts another hand and releases another blast of energy that rattles the fillings in Jess's back teeth, and an entire swath of the townsfolk turn to stone, grey and lifeless. The survivors scatter, screaming. "Come on, boys, it's time to really get this party started-"

"We have to go," Rick hisses, his hand a vice around her arm. "Pines- come on- if we're gonna fix this we need to go-"

She can't tell if he hopes for a kinder fate for his sister, but she doesn't think he'd sugarcoat the situation. She doesn't think he'd give up, not with his grandchildren trapped in here. She nods, and overhead she can hear Ford's furious screaming as his brick and tinder cage flies towards the pyramid in the sky.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It takes longer to get back to the Shack than it did to get to the town square- there's less cover foliage in the trees at the edge of town, and she and Rick have to backtrack and go east a ways before they find a relatively safe place to start heading out.

They're in the dappled rainbow shadow of the trees before Rick tries to speak.

"Look-"

"If it ain't somethin' useful about how to end this farce I kindly invite you to shut the fuck up," she says automatically, and he raises both hands. It, apparently, wasn't going to be something useful, because Rick goes back to a sullen silence. She couldn't be more grateful.

He sees or hears it before she does, ducking her down behind him and crouching, a hand under his labcoat- at first she thinks it's one of the monsters from back in the town, tracking them by scent or something, before she realizes that no, it's not one terrible monster, but two young people and a noodly guy in a labcoat old enough to be their father. The orange-haired kid in the middle is supported on both sides by their companions, and their eyes are unfocused and half-closed, their feet dragging. The girl on their other side looks even younger, her eyes streaming tears behind her thick, square glasses.

The kid in the middle is trailing blood, their front soaked with the stuff. They look startled and desperate, and Jess steps forward. They flinch- well, the two on the sides flinch, the redhead doesn't really seem to notice her at all.

"Hey, don't worry, I'm a doctor," she says soothingly, hands open. "I can help."

"We don't have time to pick up strays, Pines," Rick grinds out, and she ignores him.

"Pines?" the older man echoes, and a coughing, ragged laugh escapes him. "What a... what a coincidence. We're- we're friends... we just- we-"

"That thing with the eye took Dad and Tango," the girl says wetly, "and, um... I don't know a lot of first aid, but they hurt Pops and Ginger is- they're-"

"Hey, hey," Jess says soothingly, meeting her eyes. "One thing at a time, kiddo. We're not far from the cabin. Are either of you too hurt to walk?"

"No, ma'am," the girl sniffles, and she can hear the guilt, same as every other kid who came in unhurt with a sibling on Jess's table.

"I may have cracked a rib in a fall," the older man- Pops, she presumes- says, shaking. "But, ah- I should be- we're only, what, a couple hundred yards away? I can-"

The girl makes a soft, distressed noise. She can't be any older than Summer is, back at the house. Jess makes eye contact with Rick, and he drags a hand down his face, as if this is inconveniencing him, somehow.

"Where'd the kid get hit?" he asks, and the girl looks at him, scared, her bloody hands clenching around fistfuls of her friend's shirt.

"It's alright," Jess says, exchanging a look with the older guy. "I've been a practicing medical doctor for thirty-seven years, and my friend here is just an enormous jackass. We can help, sweetheart."

"It's alright, Angelface," the man murmurs, and she gives him a pleading look, and he meets it with a nod. She lets Jess come forward and take a look. Jess checks the redhead's pulse first, and they open one eye at her touch.

"Hey, kid, you're a mess," she says gently. "You know what happened?"

"Fffucking... triangle," they mutter, and she smiles weakly.

"Yeah, him."

"Hurts," the kid admits, then, softly, "bricks flyin' at Angel. She- is she-"

"I'm okay, Ginger," the girl says, and they smile.

"I'm okay then, too," they murmur. "Everything's... okay."

"Oh, God, they're hallucinating," the heartbroken older man next to them says, and they cough up a laugh- but it's not a wet cough. Jess checks their front- looks mostly like a broken collarbone and bits of masonry embedded high on their chest. Painful, and bloody, but not deep. She gently probes through their hair until she finds a nasty goose egg in the back, and sighs.

"They're not hallucinating, probably," Jess tells them, and the kids giggle in exhaustion despite themselves. She gives Rick a look. "Can you and this youngster carry the kid back to the cabin, sourpatch?"

"On one condition," Rick mutters, crouching down and hefting the kid half onto his shoulder. "Cut the cutesy nickname shit, Pines."

"Of course, of course, _Doctor_ Sanchez," she says sweetly, giving the other gentleman a hand. "You know, has anybody ever told you that you're a bit of a softy?"

He snorts. "Nope. N-never."

The redheaded kid snorts a painful-sounding laugh. "You sure... sound like those Pines... guys."

"Evidence suggests it's contagious," Pops wheezes at Jess's side, and she'd laugh at how right he is if her heart was just a little fuller.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They're not the first group of refugees to get to the cabin- maybe that surprises her, maybe it doesn't. A lot of fantastic and awful things have happened this weekend, and even more fantastic and awful things have happened this summer, and it sounds like this place is those things in equal measure. There are a bunch of kids Dipper and Mabel's age here, and they seem to be kids that the twins know and like, or at least know and tolerate. There are a handful of adults here, and some of them are hurt. There's another batch of the odd woodland creatures here, having an easier time interacting with Summer and the kids than with the adults. Stan is visibly uncomfortable, both with the gratitude that invariably gets tossed his way, and with the sheer presence of so many.

He spots them before Shermie does; he sees no Ripley or Fiddleford forthcoming, sees an absence of Ford, and his expression falls.

"We need to set up a room for medical use," Jess tells him. It keeps him busy, getting the kitchen in order for her. The kids and their dad seem to know Stan a little bit, at least- names are used, at least, Dr. Elliott and Ginger and Doreen, and they know Ford, and Ripley, and the kids, and Fiddleford.

Ginger needs fixing up sooner rather than later, and then after they're resting there's others- twisted ankles, first- and second-degree burns, scrapes, cuts, bruises- and by the time she's done she catches only the tail end of a conversation between Stan and Doreen- or Angelface, as Ginger keeps blearily insisting. Dipper is at Stan's side, self-consciously trying not to hold his great-uncle's hand.

"-green and spherical, but- cracking apart," she says, one hand holding Ginger's so tightly that at least one set of fingers looks to have gone numb, possibly both. "But before my Kant counter exploded, it was- it was telling me that the sphere was, um... both severely less real than the surrounding area and significantly more reality-dense than the Gravity Falls baseline. I've only, um-" she gives Stan a searching look, and he gives her a short, approving nod. "-I've only read about it, but I think... I think it was a self-contained pocket dimension. Its own little universe, inside our universe."

"How long do you think it'll be before your Foundation guys get here?" he asks softly, and next to her Pops- Dr. Elliott- shrugs.

"Time in here is extremely warped, but- the nearest base cleared to send a Mobile Task Force is an hour away at the most. Factor in an other hour to gather the team... and who knows how long before they notice?" He laughs, wincing. "But- it doesn't matter, does it? Because we have no way of gauging how long it's going to feel inside here. It could be days or weeks or years. We just... it's reality-bending. We can't control it."

"The symbol sounds familiar," Stan murmurs, sighing. "Oh, Stanford..."

"Wait!" Dipper says brightly, quailing back a little when everyone turns to him. "That symbol- you'd know it if you saw a picture of it, right?"

"That's right, Mr. Pines," Doreen says seriously, adjusting her glasses. He takes off at a run for Ford's bedroom, and comes back almost immediately with a blue, handbound leather journal hugged to his chest. He holds it out, and Stan raises his eyebrows, looking down at it.

"Yes," Dr. Elliott confirms. "The exact same- but do you think-?"

"Alright," Stan says gruffly, running his fingertips over the flaming sword branded into the leather surface. It's certainly a handsome piece of work, Jess thinks. "Write down where you saw that thing real quick. I gotta go talk to Rick."


	3. The Killing Moon

"F-fuck," Morty hisses, and Mabel looks up, concerned. (She knows she's not supposed to know what that word means, and she's- well, she's not entirely sure what it _means_ means, but she and Dipper have heard it enough to figure it out from context.)

But she doesn't have to know what the word means when she knows what saying it means, which is why she's quick to dig out a kitty-shaped bandaid and Neosporin from her sweater pocket. Morty takes it with a guilty look, dabbing the ointment onto the cut on his index finger before wrapping it with the bandage. He'd taken a break from crocheting to try to wrap silver wire around the moonstone beads; she's guessing it was just a sharp poke from the end of the wire that got him.

"Thanks, kid," he says quietly.

"Don't mention it, Morty!" she chirps, and he shrugs, rubbing the side of his hand. She isn't sure why he's as sad as he's seemed to be, ever since his Grandpa and Grandma Jessie came back with some of the Mad Science friends Aunt Ripley introduced them to this summer but minus Grunkle Ford or Aunt Ripley or Grunkle Fidds. She knows how she feels- totally fine and cheerful and happy, because- because feeling sad might mean that maybe her Aunt and Grunkles aren't coming back, and that, of course, is ridiculous.

No. Best thing is to make some more of that unicorn hair jewelry with Morty, so that everybody who's been coming to the Shack can wear one. Maybe she could use a yarn needle to embroider protections into some of the sweaters she's made? That would be a good idea to ask Grunkle Ford about, she thinks idly, before remembering that she doesn't want to think about him right now, or think about him not being here.

Next to her, Morty sighs noisily, plunking the wire-cutters and silver down onto the tabletop, clearly fishing for conversation.

"What's up?" Mabel obliges.

"I-it's just- I think it's real weird that all of a sudden Grandpa Rick didn't want to take me with him to stop the apocalypse," Morty admits, shrugging. "I mean, I've been going with him on adventures all year, and now all of a sudden he doesn't think I can handle it?"

"I mean- he went with my Grunkle Ford and Grandma, and I don't think Grunkle Stan or my Grandpa's too happy about being left behind either," she says awkwardly. "But that doesn't mean they _can't_ help, they just... stayed here with us."

"I mean, he took your Grandma," Morty says, exasperated. "But not me or Summer, even though we've been to other dimensions and, n-no offense, but your Grandma hasn't?"

"Yeah, and Grunkle Stan and me an' Dipper have been here all summer and know our way around, but none of us got to go help save Aunt Ripley and nobody who went has been here that long!" Mabel agrees, warming up to Morty's general mood if not, exactly, getting the point of why he's complaining about it. "And they didn't even- they didn't even do the thing they went out there to do, so like, what even _was_ the point?"

"Exactly!" Morty exclaims, huffing in irritation. "Wh-what's the point of all the practicing for emergencies and- and the lessons and everything- if he,  if he's just gonna ignore it the second th-there's a real situation to d-d-deal with? He's seen me f-face dangerous stuff with him, s-so why's he just ignoring it? I can help! He's- he's supposed to be the one who knows what I can do, but now he's acting like- like it doesn't even matter."

Mabel frowns down at her knitting needles, thinking about the way Ripley and Stan have acted about stuff over the summer, and about how Grandma and Grandpa were acting the other night. Grunkle Ford didn't come back- careful, careful, don't think too hard about that- and he's old and strong and smart, like, Dipper-levels of smart. And Grandma Jessie looks like she's been crying, and they wouldn't tell Grunkle Stan or Grandpa Shermie what happened around the kids, even though some of the story that's come out has been loud enough to hear.

"I mean," she says hesitantly. "Maybe- maybe he's scared that you'll get hurt. Maybe that's why he was okay with going with my Grandma and Grunkle Ford- because, well, I think he's better friends with Grunkle Stan, and he didn't let Grunkle Stan go- and maybe that's why he didn't let you and Summer go, too?"

Morty frowns, stroking his chin a little at her. "So, like- you think he's emotionally c-compromised or something? That does- it explains a lot."

"I... don't know about that," Mabel chuckles, mostly because she's not sure what that means. "But, I mean- maybe he's just worried because he loves you. He seemed super upset about it already, so maybe he's just not thinking about whether you can do it because he doesn't want you to get hurt while you're doing it."

"Of course," Morty mutters darkly, pounding his fist into his open palm. Mabel giggles nervously.

"You okay, Morty? You're acting kinda like Dipper just now," she says.

"Yeah? Yeah," he says distantly, giving her a determined little smile. "Y-you're right, we should get Dipper in on this-"

"-yeah, wait, what?"

"-the Pines Sanchez Cousin Squad will do this together," he says, offering a fistbump. She blinks, bumping knuckles.

"Pinechez Cousin Squad," she says after a moment, and his smile widens. "What are we doing now?"

"We're- we're going to find your brother," Morty says, after a moment.

"Dipper's in the kitchen, Morty," Mabel says helpfully.

"Okay, and then we're gonna go rescue your uncles and Aunt Ripley, and stop the apocalypse," he says, before shuddering back and doing something with his hands, like he's trying to erase what he just said. "Your uncles and your aunt Ripley."

"Right," Mabel agrees slowly. "Because... you want to prove to your grandpa that you can do it and help protect your grandpa."

"Yep. That's- that's it. That and no other reason." Mabel isn't sure why he'd feel the need to clarify that, especially since- well, isn't stopping the apocalypse kind of its own reward?

She puts the mystery of Why Is Morty Like That aside for now- at least, until the apocalypse is over- and follows him into the hallway where Dipper is standing and looking awkward.

"Dipper! Great- great, w-we were just looking for you," Morty says brightly.

"I wasn't hiding?" Dipper says slowly, wringing his hat for a moment as he glances down the hall towards the gift shop.

"Great," Morty repeats. "D-Dipper, is there- is there somewhere we can talk privately around here? For like, a second?"

"Hm, yeah, upstairs," Dipper says distractedly- Mabel follows his gaze and they both crowd to one side as Grunkle Stan and Rick stalk past, in the middle of some kind of argument or something.

"-some goddamn fucking fool's errand, so _no_ , genius-"

"This ain't a request, Sanchez- kids, cover your ears- I don't care how fucking stupid you think it is, I didn't spend thirty fucking years downstairs for-"

The adults pass through into the museum, and Morty and Dipper share a glance with Mabel and each other. Mabel grabs Dipper's hand.

"Come on, Bro-bro."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"It might be a while," Grunkle Stan sighs, as the near-blackness rushes past them. Mabel cracks a glowstick from Summerween and shakes it, tying it on a spare length of yarn around her neck. The light's enough to see one another, at least, but nothing else.

"Grunkle Stan, did you know this pit was literally bottomless?" Dipper asks, arms crossed. For his part, Stan looks innocently puzzled- which would have probably worked better before Mabel got to experience a true expression of innocent puzzlement on his face today, thanks to the Truth Teeth.

"Of course he did, dawg, that's why the sign says that!" Soos exclaims, and Stan nods enthusiastically, pointing at him.

"Then why wasn't there a fence or like, a railing or something?" Dipper demands, exasperated. Stan chuckles nervously.

"Well, there's a very good reason for that, and the reason itself, y'see, is- _yoink_!" Stan jumps in midair, which accomplishes nothing but moves him slightly higher- maybe about a foot or two. Mabel and Dipper shoot him twin looks of disapproval, crossing their arms over their chests, and he sighs, swimming back down to them. "Alright, alright, listen. There's no fence because it's basically harmless to living creatures and people- you fall in, wait a while, and it drops ya back out about four feet off the ground and seven feet to the west, towards the house. I used to have one of them super-tall drop slides goin' into it before The Accident."

"The Accident?" Dipper echoes.

"What was the Accident, Grunkle Stan? Now you _gotta_ tell us the story!" Mabel says, grinning, and he gives her an unsteady smile.

"Well- it ain't that interesting a story, kids, are ya sure-"

"We're sure!" Soos yells, delighted. Stan huffs, waggling his hands in midair.

"Alright, kids. So there I am, summer of '89, right? Now normally, the slide scared off anybody who wasn't a fratboy or some big guy goin' through a midlife crisis, but Jackie- she's, uh, she's the first person I ever hired- Jackie manages to talk this teenaged boy into tryin' it. He's all of sixteen and he's tryin' to impress her- big tall girl, big red hair, right, it was the eighties and that girl loved glam rock- and this kid climbs all the way up to the top of the slide, does this ridiculous air guitar solo for a good three and a half minutes, points down at her, and yells, 'This one's for you, beautiful!' Embarrassed the heck out of her."

"Summer love!" Mabel sighs happily, hands clasped.

"Nah, kid, she was twenty-three at the time, it was just embarrassing," Stan says dismissively, and Dipper looks pointedly away. "And I'm pretty sure she... was already datin' Dan?"

"Dan?" Dipper repeats, eyes round.

"Yeah, they ended up gettin' married-"

"Wait, Dan _Corduroy_?" Soos asks, eyes huge. "Dood- you know what that means?"

"That- that kids shouldn't be tryin' to impress adults?" Stan asks, blinking.

"Wendy's a Legacy, dood," Soos whispers reverently, and Stan raises both eyebrows but doesn't say anything about that. Mabel wonders if that's why Wendy decided to work at the Shack, even though she doesn't usually seem to like it.

"Well- well anyway, so," Stan says, fumbling a little. "Kid climbs in, right? Kid drops down into the slide, straight into the Pit. I even had a fake loop up out of the ground that went over the spot where people come out, so it wouldn't look like people just fell into a hole. It usually took a few seconds for people to drop out, sometimes took up to two or three minutes. So we wait... and we wait... and we wait."

"What happened?" Dipper asks fearfully, and Stan shrugs dramatically.

"Maybe the Pit wasn't sure what to do with the kid," he suggests. "I've fallen in a few times myself, it ain't pleasant, but eventually it's like something decides you belong back where ya started, and out ya plop. I don't know enough about how it works- kinda always assumed it was somethin' weird related to your, uh, your Great-Uncle Stanford's portal stuff. But I'm sittin' there, right, it's been seven years so I know what that thing's supposed to do, and for the first time, it ain't doin' it. Jackie's gettin' worried, sayin' maybe we should send somebody in after him- and what am I gonna do if that next person gets stuck too, right? She doesn't know about the Pit, so I start gettin' worried she's gonna do somethin' reckless and jump in herself."

"Oh, no," Mabel says, hands on her face. "Does- does the teenager come out okay in the end, Grunkle Stan?"

"Yeah! Eventually," Stan adds, nodding. "Five minutes goes by, ten minutes, half an hour. Pretty soon it's forty-five minutes later and the kid's parents are walkin' around lookin' for him. I see Jackie square up to go talk to 'em, tell 'em what happened- and out of nowhere, plop. The kid shows up, his mullet all windblown and messed up, and his eyes full of stars. Wouldn't shut up about becoming a comet and bein' one with the universe. I gave the parents a coupon for thirty percent off their next tour and sent'em on their way, but eh, they never came back after that."

"Anyway, that night, I realize I can't keep this thing open. What if that happened again? What if it's somebody whose family was watching, or who was ready to call the cops? So I put up a sign sayin' it was closed til the end of summer, and in September I hired Dan to chop up all the wood with an axe. If any pieces of the slide fell in, it didn't fall back out."

"Did anybody else ever fall in, Grunkle Stan?" Dipper asks, and Stan nods.

"Just me, though, so nobody ever noticed," he says, rubbing his hands. "Aaaand that's it for the story, kids. Hey- wanna see a card trick?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 "-it's green like her sweater, and it has a picture of her fire sword on it," Dipper finishes, his hand in Mabel's. Morty rubs the lower half of his face, all lit up green by the glow of their jar of fireflies. "She said they saw it form over the Swap Meet grounds, but it looked like it was being pulled by vines towards the cliffs."

"It's a trap," Morty muses. "It's an obvious trap. You two know about this Bill character, you've met him before, right? What's he get out of this?"

Mabel and Dipper exchange glances, shrugging.

"Grunkle Ford says he wants to take over the universe by merging his dimension with our dimension. Aunt Ripley says he just wants to hurt people because it makes him feel important," Mabel offers. She doesn't... like talking about this, but she puts a hand on the jar of fireflies and she feels a little better, so.

"Hm." Morty stands up and starts pacing the room, thinking hard. "What else do we know about him?"

"Well," Dipper says, opening up one of the Journals. "Grunkle Ford used to be friends with him, and called him his Muse, and then he found out that Bill was really evil and basically kickstarted the whole thing with calling Grunkle Stan here and everything. He was trying to use the portal downstairs to open up a gateway to his home dimension so he could have a physical body?"

"That's... not how that works, though," Morty says, pausing.

"What do you mean?" Dipper asks, clicking a pen open.

"W-w-well, I don't- I'm not the scientist behind it, so I don't know all the math that goes into it," Morty explains. "But- to put it really simply- even if the portal was explicitly designed to cross lines with any one specific dimension anytime it opens between here and another dimension, the odds of that actually happening would be astronomical even if you had the portal open constantly and cycling near-instantly for, like, y-years. Right? Because there's an infinite number of dimensions, the odds of getting to any one specific one would be... tiny. If that was his only plan, it wouldn't even be guaranteed to _work_."

He turns and gazes at the window, then back down at the book. "A-and if it was that this place- Gravity Falls- specifically has a connection to the- what's- what's it called?"

"The Nightmare Realm," Dipper asserts.

"Y-yeah, if it- if it's that this place specifically has a connection to the Nightmare Realm, then every time any portal opened here it would have opened up onto the Nightmare Realm, and even if nobody else was doing anything with portals around here, Grandpa Rick would have opened it up like, a dozen times by now."

"So it can't work the way Grunkle Ford thinks it works, because it would have happened before now," Dipper says, flipping pages until he gets to one of the first pages Mabel ever saw him read. "And Grunkle Ford thinks it works like that... because Bill's the one who told him how it all works. So much for 'Trust No One,' I guess."

"So anything we do know about this guy, we have to take it with a grain of s-salt," Morty sighs.

"Morty, you're really smart," Mabel says seriously, and he shrugs, looking aside.

"Aw, jeez, I don't- I don't know about that, I just... have more experience than you guys," he says, coughing. "I-I'm older than you. I mean, I'm almost _fifteen_ , my birthday's coming up next week."

"You're an August baby, too! Morty, you shoulda said something- Dipper, we-" Mabel catches herself, sighing. "Wait... no. We have to wait until the apocalypse is over before we can plan a birthday party."

"I'm looking f-forward to it," Morty says shyly.

"Anyway. Bill Cipher," Mabel says, flapping her sleeves. "Continue. We were talking about how Bill probably lied when he told Grunkle Ford that he'd get a physical form when he got here."

"Okay, so! That's another thing I don't get- why would coming here give him a physical form if he doesn't already have one?" Morty runs his fingers through his hair, sniffing. "I-I mean, Rick and I don't suddenly become fourth-dimensional beings when we enter a new dimension. And no matter how powerful this Bill guy is, he couldn't literally create matter without rewriting the fundamental laws of the universe, and if he could do that he wouldn't have needed the portal in the first place."

"But the survivors- some of them _saw_ Bill gain a new body," Dipper points out, his pen going still over the surface of his notebook.

"Maybe- maybe that's not Bill's actual body," Mabel suggests, gazing up at the line of stuffed animals on the bed, the Mabel-shaped sock puppet still hanging from its hook. "Maybe- look, Bill can change stuff here, right? So maybe he made a body out of- out of whatever he had around, and he's wearing it like a puppet, but it's not actually him, because he's still just sort of this... energy ghost thing."

"But why? What would he have to gain from doing that?" Morty asks, frustrated. Dipper stands up, waving his pen.

"It's continuing the lies he's been telling Great-Uncle Ford since he got involved. It's- it's why he caged Ford and carried him off, instead of just smushing him right there- whatever it is Bill wants, he needs Ford to do it," he explains, and it's... it's terrible, because who would hurt so many people just to trick one person? Who would do so many horrible things just to hurt their uncle? What could somebody _get_ that they could only get from hurting somebody? But the more Mabel turns it around in her head, the more it fits, and she feels... sad, mostly, that somebody could have become the kind of person Bill seems to be, and that he decided to hurt the people she loves.

"He has at least two hostages that your uncle cares about personally, who can be used as pawns to make your uncle do something," Morty says heavily, sitting down on the edge of Dipper's bed. "Mr. McGucket, who's a statue there with him-"

"-and Aunt Ripley, in that big, obvious trap," Dipper continues, frowning. "But why- why would he separate them like that, if he's going to do something bad to the hostages to try to make Ford do something?"

"And what could he even want your uncle to do? He can manipulate matter here, he can read minds, so what-"

"He's trying to manipulate Ford, not matter," Mabel says, gazing down into the green glow of the jar. It feels like forever ago now, but it was really only a little under two months ago that she and Dipper broke into the Dusk 2 Dawn with Wendy and her friends. "I think... I think he wants to trick Ford into doing something, or... scare him into doing something."

"I really-" Dipper breathes out noisily. "I feel like we know how to stop all this, but I don't know how we know."

"Yeah, me too," Mabel chimes in, putting her chin down on the lid of the jar and hugging it close.

"So... going after Aunt Ripley is just... walking into Bill's trap, and basically doing exactly whatever it is that Bill needs to make your uncle do what he needs to take over the dimension," Morty says glumly. "What makes you so sure we can stop Bill's apocalypse, if he's not even a real, physical presence here?

"Because... because he's still just some kind of ghost right now," Mabel says slowly, and thinks of waking up aching and nauseated on the filthy linoleum of the Dusk2Dawn, and of the dreams she had once or twice, her body moving, her mouth moving, and those twenty-years-dead ghosts doing the moving for her. "And sometimes..."

Aunt Ripley's face going soft, her eyes going all unfocused, sitting in a brightly-lit restaurant, tacos on the table, her hands opening and closing as she gets lost, talking about ghosts, talking about what happened to Mabel in the abandoned convenience store.

"...sometimes you have to put them down," Mabel murmurs, still holding the jar. "Sometimes you have to put them out of their misery, because... because sometimes the ghosts win."

She looks up to see her brother and Morty watching her, looking vaguely alike in the way that their eyes and mouths are open, their brown hair tinted the same green-yellow by the light of Aunt Ripley's magic jar of fireflies.

"What if Bill wants... what if Bill wants to do to Ford what the Duskertons did to you?" Dipper asks in a small voice, and Mabel straightens her shoulders.

"Then we do to him what Aunt Ripley did to them," she says firmly.

"Is this the same thing your uncle mentioned about burning a haunted building to the ground?" Morty asks, after a moment.

"Yep! That's the one," Mabel tells him.

"...you know what, I _like_ it," he says, and Dipper grins.

"Alright- um, I don't know if you guys thought this, but it really seemed like Grunkle Stan was trying to convince your Grandpa to go out there and rescue Aunt Ripley," Dipper adds, and Morty groans, walking over to the window.

"Ugh- well, a-at least Rick probably figured half of this stuff out by now, there's no way he'd-"

Mabel and Dipper exchange a look, and Mabel chuckles nervously. "That kind of an abrupt stopping point, Pinechez Cousin Squad Co-Founder."

"Rick and Stan are getting in your uncle's red car," Morty says dully.

"What!?" She and Dipper crowd him at the window- Stan and Rick, sure enough, are climbing into the Stanleymobile, and something that looks an awful lot like a baseball bat wrapped in something shining is in Stan's right hand.

"Oh, no, we- we have to stop them before they get to Aunt Ripley!" Dipper groans, clutching the front of his vest.

"God _dammit_!" Morty snaps.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Mom? Who's that?" Mabel asks, climbing up into her Mom's lap without waiting for a response. She's seven years old and she still has to sit at the kid table with Dipper at Thanksgiving, but now that everybody's done eating there's an old man she recognizes, in a vague way, sleeping on one end of the couch where Grandpa Shermie is also currently sitting and sleeping. Her Mom gives the old guy in question a wry smile.

"That's your Grandpa Shermie's brother, sweetie, Great-Uncle Stan. Don't you remember him from last year, too?"

The name is faintly familiar, as is the slouching curve of his body, his square jaw, his round nose and big ears. He's wearing the kind of suit that comes with a vest- the pants and jacket are black, and the vest is red, and his buttons, she notices, are yellow with little red question marks on them. This morning, when he came in, he'd rubbed his big hands over her and Dipper's hair- still growing out from the sudden short haircuts they had to get after the picture day fiasco last month- and told them that they looked like a couple of little fluffballs. Mabel considers this as she looks him over. She doesn't have any regular uncles to compare him to, but she supposes with gray hair and whiskers like that, he could qualify as a Gray Uncle.

"He looks like Grandpa Shermie," she says finally, and Mom huffs a small laugh, nodding.

"Your dad's probably going to look just like him and your grandpa, too," she says, and Mabel whips her head around to give Dad a shocked glare. He's holding Dipper's hand and talking to Grandma Jessie about something important-sounding, and Mabel's almost offended to think that her Dad- _her_ Dad!!- will ever be that old.

"Dad!" Mabel calls out; the old man on the couch snores once but doesn't move. _**"** **Dad!!"**_

"And it's all cel-shaded and you use this thing called a Celestial Brush- yes, Mabel?" Dad asks, glancing over.

"When are you gonna be old?" she demands, and Dad and Grandma Jessie laugh a little, even though Dipper's starting to look worried about their Dad getting old now.

"Don't you think I'm old now, sweetheart?" he asks, and Mabel huffs at him, waving her arms.

"No!! You're not old, Grandpa Shermie and Gray-uncle Stan are old!"

Now everybody but Mabel and Dipper- and the sleeping Gray-uncle- is laughing.

"Well, thanks, honey, but I'm not going to be as old as Uncle Stan for at least another twenty years," Dad says, giving Dipper's head a pat. "Why don't you two watch the parade on TV with Grandpa and your Great-Uncle?"

The twins sigh noisily and head over to the couch, wedging themselves between two sleeping old guys. At some point, somebody puts it over to an old movie- it's in black and white, and anything without color bores Mabel to death, probably.

Or to sleep. Mabel doesn't remember much- one minute, she's struggling to keep her eyes open as stars twinkle and talk to one another. The next, a man on the screen is kneeling in a cemetery, brushing snow off a grave with frantic hands, IN MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED SON, HARRY BAILEY, 1911-1919.

She doesn't catch what happens next- the man turns on the screen and his little friend is there, but she doesn't catch what they say because the old man at her side lets out a soft, hitching gasp. Mabel looks up, concerned, and the man who looks so much like her Grandpa but isn't him is crying, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead as he covers his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

"Gr'uncle Stan?" she asks sleepily, and he freezes- it's the first time, though neither of them knows it right now, that anybody calls him _grunkle_.

"I-I'm sorry, sweetie, I thought you were sleepin'," he says roughly, wiping his face and turning a bright, wide smile at her. "Ah, look at me, fallin' asleep on the couch with my brother and a coupla goblins."

"Are you crying? Don't cry," she says, putting her arms around him, and he chuckles, giving her an awkward pat.

"I ain't cryin', I get, uh- sleep-hiccups," he says, clearing his throat. "Isn't it bedtime for you and your twin, kiddo? Look at your Grandpa, he's sleepin' too." 

("You see, George?" the man on the screen asks. "You really had a wonderful life.")

The old man stands, stretching out his back with a creaking noise. "Come on, let's get you two into bed."

He picks her up with one arm and she squeaks with glee; still smiling, he scoops a sleeping Dipper up with his other arm, and carries them back to their bedroom. He's gone by the time they wake up in the morning; Mom sighs and says he didn't want to miss all the Small Business Saturday sales.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The car's long gone by the time Mabel and Dipper and Morty get downstairs; they make it to the back porch before another wave of weirdness hits, exploding trees into showers of dry, sunbaked skulls and screaming, eyeball-faced frogs. It laps up against the edge of a rough, shimmering circle around the house, and even if they thought they could get to the golf carts in time to try to catch up to the Stanleymobile, Mabel just can't imagine driving through something like this and coming out the same on the other end.

"Well, well, well, what exactly are _you_ all up to?" someone asks behind them, and Mabel and Dipper turn with a start. Gideon looks- well, not good, because nobody looks good right now. He's not wearing his bolo tie or suit jacket, Mabel notices, and his hair is starting to deflate, and there are circles under his eyes.

"Gideon," Dipper says coldly. "Surprised to see you here."

"Pines," Gideon says curtly, sizing Morty up. "A new boyfriend, Mabel? Have you truly left our love behind?"

"I'm _fourteen_ and we're _cousins_ ," Morty snaps, sounding disgusted. "Who is this guy supposed to be?"

"I'm Gideon Gleeful, and I'm Gravity Falls' resident master of the magical arts," Gideon proclaims. Mabel can't help but snort.

"Gideon, reading one of Grunkle Ford's journals and playing with his old magic junk doesn't make you a master of anything," she giggles, and Gideon rolls his eyes.

"Gideon, we're in a hurry, what do you want?" Dipper asks, putting an arm in front of Mabel, as if worried that Gideon might reach out for her.

"I think it's fairly obvious, Pines," Gideon retorts. "I want to guarantee the safety and prosperity of me an' mine. In case it may have escaped your notice, _the apocalypse has literally opened a hellmouth of chaos and destruction in the sky over my house_."

"Kid's got a point," Morty says, after a beat. "But what do you think you can do that could help?"

"I can summon a rain of human blood," Gideon says, after a moment.

"That's not _useful_ , Gideon," Dipper says flatly. "That's just disgusting."

"I've been studyin' and usin' Journal Two for more'n a year, Pines, and every time I needed something the book didn't give me I went lookin' for it," Gideon replies. "You have the books in your possession for now, but when it comes to their actual use you're just a rank amateur."

"You might be okay at doing some magic, but you also tried to kill us, like, a few times," Mabel points out.

"Jesus Christ, are you serious?" Morty mutters.

"That's _blasphemy_ ," Gideon says, folding his arms.

"Gideon," Dipper starts,  massaging the bridge of his nose. "We don't have time for this. We need to-"

"-this was caused by Bill," Gideon interrupts. "And Bill is a creature of great power an' magic. What you _need_ is to face this problem with the only tools that can be of help. What you need is someone with a workin' knowledge of magical arts- and just because I learned everything the Author knew about magic doesn't mean that's all I know. I can help."

Dipper makes a motion at Morty, as if asking him to dismiss Gideon out of hand, but- but Gideon has a point, is the thing. Mabel steps forward.

"Do you know anything about exorcisms?" she asks, and he gives her a googoo-eyed look she remembers from their terrible dates.

"Mabel, my ethereal angel- I know a thing or two about performin' an exorcism, but it ain't a permanent solution. Even if we could ensnare Bill in place long enough to do it, he'd just need to find a way back into this reality-"

"-and what we want is to burn him out of the world so that he can never come back," Dipper mutters, stroking his chin. "So you can't help-"

"-I'm sorry, did I actually say I can't do what you want?" Gideon asks sharply, before turning back to Mabel with fluttering eyelashes. "The problem is twofold, my sweet- gettin' Bill here, and constructin' a magical fire of physical and spiritual magnitude great enough to destroy him once he went into it. The problem with that is that for somethin' as infinitely powerful as Bill, I'd need- shucks- I'd need a firepit the size of Yellowstone National Park."

"Well-" Morty huffs, and Mabel grabs Dipper's arm. His eyes widen in understanding.

"Wait- could you do it with a pit that was _technically infinite_ , Gideon?" Dipper asks, and Gideon only takes a second before he gets it, too.

"That would absolutely work, yes. But how would you get him here?"

"Leave that to us," Mabel says confidently, putting her hands on her hips. "We have to go stop Grunkle Stan and Morty's Grandpa from making everything even worse, anyway!"

"Your grandfath- oh, Good Cop," Gideon mutters, looking Morty over. "I see... well, I'm not sure that's a good idea, seein' as I am gonna need assistance-"

"Gideon, there's a bunch of people in there, including our Grandpa, who'll be able to help you," Mabel says confidently, putting a hand on Gideon's starchy little shoulder. "So are you gonna make a Bill-barbecue or what?"

He giggles- the same high-pitched titter from when they'd dated. "Mabel, for you? Yes, definitely, absolutely."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Do I really have to go?" Mabel groans, and Mom gives her hair a pat.

"Your brother is going, so yes," she says firmly. "Why aren't you finished packing yet, sweetie?"

"I don't want to go to Oregon," Mabel says glumly, flinging herself onto her bed so that stacks of stuffed animals fall over onto her. Maybe she'll be buried alive, and she won't have to go to Oregon.

"Sweetie, you have to go," Mom sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed and dislodging a teddy bear and a giant stuffed toucan. "Dad and I are going to be out of town for my work conference this summer-"

"All summer!?" Mabel gasps, sitting up. "I thought it was just June! We have to be there all summer long?!"

"Buttercup, I know we told you this was going to be all summer," Mom says gently, taking Mabel's hand. "You've been pretty distracted lately. End of school blues or... something else?"

Mabel looks down. "Dave Myers is dating Lisa," she mutters. Mom sits quietly for a moment.

"Are you... mad that she's dating him, or mad that he's dating _her_?" she asks, after a minute, and Mabel shrugs, burying her face in Fun-Fun Bun-Bun's purple fur and floppy ears. "Honey..."

"I don't know!" Mabel huffs, sniffling. "But- but it doesn't matter, because Lisa got mad at me for being mad, and she said I was just-"

Mabel cuts herself off, clutching her rabbit toy close. Lisa's supposed to be her best friend, but Lisa also seems to have a different idea of what that means. She doesn't want to tell Mom that Lisa said she's acting crazy and weird, or any of the other stuff Lisa said to her that hurt her feelings, but one thing- maybe Mom knows the answer to one thing Lisa'd said.

"-she said I was just, like- jealous because she thinks I'm in love with her," Mabel says, face scrunching up. Mom clears her throat, giving her a couple of pats on her back.

"Well... you know what? Maybe this trip will be good for you. You won't have to see or be around all the... Lisa drama and associated feelings... and who knows? Maybe you'll meet some nice people up in Oregon. New friends are always good to have, or, you know, a new crush," Mom says carefully, and Mabel sits up, waving her fists.

"That's it! I'll show her by going up to Grande Falls, Oregon-"

"Gravity Falls, Oregon, honey."

"-and I'll date a boy who's even cuter and smarter and funnier than Dave Myers and then _she'll_ be the jealous one, proving once and for all how not-jealous I am!" Mabel finishes triumphantly. Mom nods slowly, giving her another pat.

"Sweetheart, I'm not sure that's going to work," she says hesitantly.

"Why not? Don't- don't you think a cool boy who's cooler than Dave Myers is going to like me?" Mabel asks, deflating a little.

"Oh my god, of course not, sweetie, only some kind of- I mean- no, I think anybody who is your age exactly would like you," Mom says, blinking.

"But would they like me like me?" Mabel sighs, and Mom frowns.

"Hon, I think-" She sighs. "I think you need to find the _right_ kid, the kid that _you_ like, first. Worry about that other stuff later, alright?"

"I guess so," Mabel mutters, kicking her feet. "Hey, Mom, how come we have to go to visit Grunkle Stan up in Oregon and not Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Don't you like Grunkle Stan?" she asks, and Mabel shrugs.

"I mean, he's nice for an old guy we only see once a year, but-"

"-aw, give him a chance, Mabes." Mom ruffles her hair. "You know, he's always worked so hard that he hasn't... had a lot of chances to come visit, but he loves you guys to pieces. He came down when you two were born, you know!"

"Really?" Mabel asks, wrinkling her nose. "You let him in the room, or-?"

"I mean, after you were born," Mom clarifies, picking up Pinky Penguin. "He came and he held you two so tight, Grandpa Shermie had to resort to dirty fighting to get his turn. I believe there was a clear threat of getting bitten."

"Heh." Mabel stands, frowning. "Well... okay, Mom. I guess I gotta pack- but I'm gonna have to take all my stuffed animals with me!"

"Pack your clothing and supplies before you pack any toys," Mom says, and Mabel sighs.

"Fiiiine..."

Mom stands, and on impulse, Mabel grabs her waist in a hug.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Mom," she says, and Mom gives her a big hug back.

"Anytime, cuddlebug."

"Hey- Mom? Just- why aren't we spending any time at Grandma and Grandpa's this summer?" Mabel asks, and Mom pauses in the doorway, looking thoughtful.

"Because... um, theoretically... if the world was going to end, you know, Gravity Falls would be so... isolated... that it would be fine, even if everywhere else... wasn't."

Mabel blinks. "Is that like the Mayan Calendar thing Dipper's been talking about lately?"

"Y-yes... yeah," Mom says, nodding quickly.

"Isn't that supposed to be later in the year though, like... December?" Mabel asks, and Mom laughs, high and fake, like when she and Dad are telling a joke and not letting Mabel and Dipper in on it.

"Yeah, that- that was a joke, baby," she says, before clearing her throat. "Wow, you know- I better run down real quick and check to see if you have any laundry in the machines, put a pause on the packing, kiddo."

"Okay," Mabel says, puzzled. She picks up a stuffed animal- a green kitten- and grins. A cool out-of-town artist girl visiting a small town in the middle of nowhere? It's the beginning of, like, _ten_ junior high Real Girls Romance novels.

This summer's gonna be pretty cool.


	4. Everybody Wants To Rule The World

Ford's eyes are shadowed and hollow behind his glasses; he looks too old to be younger than thirty. He looks too much like some of the guys Shermie came home with, for someone who never went to war. His wrists are too thin, his neck and jaw too thin, his hair too unkempt and thick. He'd come East as fast as he could- he didn't have a black suit and Pops had two, because even a legendary cheapskate grows out of clothing. He hadn't known how to say no when Filbrick had told him to take his older suit- might as well save fifty bucks. Shermie'd had to fight not to react with a sock to his dad's jaw for that one. Seems like more and more lately- ever since Mom got sick, but if he's honest it's been ever since the twins left- Shermie has to fight not to react with his fists whenever Filbrick says anything or does anything that rubs him the wrong way. Seems like more and more lately saying or doing _anything_ rubs him the wrong way. It's just his bone-deep awareness that throwing a punch will make him just as bad as his Pops that keeps him from doing it.

(He's almost eighteen months away from the first time that Jessie puts her foot down and says that he's got to talk to someone about this. He will tell her that he's talking to her, right now, and she will tell him that it's not what she meant and he knows it. He'll tell her that it's fine, that he's fine, that this is what Pines men are like, and that he can control himself, he's normal and he's fine. Three months after that he'll put his fist through the drywall in the bathroom, because his dumb hands dropped his dumb toothbrush into the dumb toilet. He'll lose a workday to it, frozen in panic and terror and the dreadful knowledge that he's just like his Pops, that next time it might be a person, that he doesn't know how it started with Pops and he's sure now he's crossed that line and he'd never put a hand up to Jessie or Jake _but what if he does?_

Jessie will come home from a shift at her new practice, asking him if he wants to go pick Jake up from the movies, and he won't have a response, he won't have anything, and she'll come in and see him like this, knuckles long since scabbed over, and when she tries to touch his shoulder he'll flinch away from this five-foot-nothing country pediatrician like a whipped dog. She won't issue an ultimatum- she's not that kind of wife, she's not that kind of person- but when she brings it up again he agrees immediately, sure that one of two things will happen. Either he refuses and this happens again and she leaves him, taking Jake, or he agrees, and the head shrinker diagnoses him with the crazy and she leaves him, taking Jake, but at least nobody gets hurt by him first.

And it will turn out that Jessie doesn't think he's less of a man, or less of a person, or less of a father, for needing help, and that Jessie doesn't mind that more often than not he crawls home from his therapy sessions and cries his eyes out those first few months, hurting and relieved and exhausted and clean. And it will turn out that she was right from the start, and everything gets better a piece at a time.

But he's nearly two years away from his first meeting with the therapist, and he still believes that it's alright for some, but a Pines can't do it because a Pines isn't curable, that's just who and what they are.)

Their father's old suit hangs badly on Ford's shoulders; it was built for a man two or three inches taller and maybe thirty or forty pounds heavier, and Ford's bone-white wrists and mop of shaggy brown hair stand out against its tailored lines. He looks like a child wearing his father's clothing; he looks like a wet-behind-the-ears twerp from one of the Man's agencies on his first top-secret mission. Shermie hates Filbrick for it- more than the way he hates Filbrick for not crying, for driving the twins away, for giving Ma the stress, for buying Ma the cigarettes to deal with the stress- he hates Filbrick for this thirty-year-old bespoke suit.

He hates that Filbrick isn't crying at the funeral for his wife, that it's probably something stupid like "Pines Men Don't Cry" that's stopping him. Shermie isn't crying either. He hates himself a little less than he hates Filbrick for it, but- but it's Ma, and she's gone, and it's perverse that he's a Pines _now_ , of all times. Ford isn't crying either- his face is drawn and a little slack, like he hasn't been sleeping, like he hasn't been himself- but Shermie can't hate him for that. Lee was Ma's little baby, Lee was her special little poppet, and Lee would have had the decency to cry- probably, if Shermie wants to start being honest, Lee would have gotten up and stormed out of the room, eyes brimming with unshed tears, hands in shaking, meaty fists. Lee would have made a ruckus on the way to some dark and quiet corner where he could lick his wounds in privacy.

And Ford isn't the type to try to make himself feel better the way Lee would- Ford is going to let it eat at him until he can't take it, and then numb it out entirely. He never figured out as a kid how to do shit with his feelings without Lee egging him on, and now he's an adult, and he hasn't even spoken about his twin, hasn't asked about him, has barely responded to anything since he got here in the first place. The hollowness and the weariness, at least, show that Ford's feeling something. Not like Filbrick, who looks the same as always, not like Shermie, maintaining a poker face out of habit. Lee would have been with Ford, showing his feelings or whatever, and it would have been better for everybody, and Ford wouldn't have looked so sick, would have begged for and offered forgiveness, and their family would have been whole again, if only Lee could have been here, too.

But Ford's here, at least, and Lee isn't- and deep down, Shermie thinks Lee's dead, even though Ma didn't seem to think so- and Ford has to do all the work here, as the only Pines who can show an emotion over Ma's passing.

Not the first time the rest of us were riding on Ford's coattails, Shermie thinks bitterly in Filbrick's direction, and a hoarse, choking laugh bubbles up out of him. It sounds enough like a sob that nobody gives him a dirty look, but after a panicked glance around he finds that he can't stay, that it's going to happen again. He leaves Jessie and Jake to bear the brunt of the crying relatives, like the coward he is, and ends up in a patch of sunshine on the sidewalk, head lowered, hands gripping his knees.

The legs are all he sees, at first, of the man wearing the ill-fitting black suit and artfully scuffed shoes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the man says, and Shermie glances up to look at his face. He is only vaguely dismayed to realize that he can't focus well on the man's features- he catches only a faint impression of unblemished, tanned cheeks, combed brown hair, and a short and shallow crow's foot at the corner of one eye. "I have a few questions for you about Sara Pines and about the rest of your family."

"Is that right," Shermie says flatly, straightening up to his full height, and the man reaches for his jacket pocket. "If you're not about to offer me a cigarette in my time of need, you're gonna want to keep those hands where I can see 'em."

The man doesn't stop moving, merely raises his open hands a little. "Just reaching for my badge, Mr. Pines."

"Not sure who thought it'd be a good idea to send you," Shermie says idly. "Don't you guys have a file that tells you what a bad idea it is to send a man with a government badge around _this_ family?"

"I haven't said who I'm with," the man says, faintly amused.

"Yeah, but if you were with that team of skippers who needed my help with that nasty mess back in '67, you might'a been told that I already did my bit and that I was promised you bastards would leave all of us the hell alone," Shermie says, trying to keep his voice down and mostly- he thinks- succeeding. "So you're either one of those boys from the FBI or you're one of those boys from the U.N. Not sure I like the idea of either one of you sniffin' around a dead woman's funeral, if we're gonna be honest."

"Why start now?" the man asks drily. "But if we are going to be honest with one another, Mr. Pines, I might say that it's certainly very interesting that a big hole in our New Jersey office's detection field opened up right when your mother passed. You don't suppose she was trying to hide any of you from the kind of people who might be looking, do you?"

"Knowing the kind of people who'd be looking? I wouldn't trust a pet hamster with your type of people," Shermie says flatly. "But no, nobody took after Ma, if that's what you're asking."

"That's for the best. I'd hate to have to upgrade your filing status from Person of Interest, Mr. Pines," the man says, and he might even be sincere. "How aware are you of your mother's- inclination?"

"You referrin' to her being some kind of psychic?" Shermie stretches his shoulders. "She couldn't predict what she'd have for lunch if she were the one who bought the groceries, kid. All this threat level stuff, all this anomalous stuff, you guys have built it up in your heads to be some kind of freak thing, and it's not, it never was."

"You're not suggesting that your mother was _normal_ -" the man starts, and Shermie grabs him by the lapels, because that's the only part of him he thinks he could get a grip on.

"Don't fucking say _normal_ like it's the only way to be, don't talk about my Ma, don't fucking say anything," he hisses into an approximation of a face. "She wasn't helpless. That's what made you people itch to pull the trigger, isn't it? She wasn't helpless and if there's one thing that you types can't stand, it's a woman who isn't helpless, right?"

"Mr. Pines, please let go of my suit jacket before something bad happens to you," the man says coolly, and Shermie releases him, disgusted. "Like it or not, there is a _reason_ why we have to protect normal people from-"

"People like my Ma," Shermie says, sneering. "Even though she never hurt anybody with it, you thought she shouldn't get to have it."

"What _was_ she capable of, Mr. Pines?" the man presses, and Shermie frowns. "Sherman, where do the flowered dreams go at the end of watch?"

"That-" Shermie pauses, closing his mouth. Where had he heard that one before? _Had_ he heard that one before? "That's a new one, isn't it? I used to collect 'em, back in the day."

The man regards him silently, and Shermie gives him a wolfish grin.

"Those mind-virus nonsense sentences your types use. Does the George Washington howl, did the black moon cross the river, that sort of thing. What was that one for, making me be honest or just compliant in general?"

"I believe the word you're looking for is cognitohazard, and it was for general compliance," the man says. Shermie wishes he could read his face at least. "Your resistance ability is decently high. A holdover from your work eleven years ago? Must have been some favor those labcoats owed you-"

"Probably wouldn't have worked anyway, I'd seen a lot of things even before we ran into that Sarkic cult. Well, I say _we_ \- _your_ boys didn't come in til cleanup," Shermie says mildly. "Those Unusual Incidents fellas were more quick on the draw than your Global Occult boys were."

"I will neither confirm nor deny my allegiance to any known group-" the man starts, and Shermie flips open his leather badge case with a humming noise.

"Do your guys still put those mind-virus, oh, _excuse me_ , cognito-hazards in the metal of your badges?" Shermie asks innocently, waggling his eyebrows.

"I suspect you know that even if they did, I wouldn't be able to tell you," the man sighs, remarkably calm for a man who's just had his pocket picked. "Please return my badge immediately, Pines."

"Or what, you'll shoot me?"

The pause is heavier than it has any right to be, and Shermie hands it back. "Better than makin' it a double funeral, right?"

"Thank you," the man says, tucking it away. Shermie looks back at the door, almost dreading his return more than whatever else this man has to tell him. He almost hopes-

-the door slams open, Jessie bodily carrying a startled-looking Jake.

"Excuse me," the man says faintly, which Jessie ignores.

"Your brother just started whallopin' on your father," she says icily, putting Jake down onto his feet and dusting his shoulders off. "We'll be waiting in the car, Sherm."

"Oh, for shit's sake," Shermie mutters, but when he turns to the man there's no one there.

Probably for the best.

He hands Jessie his jacket and rolls up his sleeves as he heads back in to contain the situation.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"This is probably," Shermie mutters, settling the enormous gun- what did Rick call it? Banality Cannon?- on its makeshift mount, "a terrible, just, awful and terrible idea-"

The recoil from the first shot hits him like a blow to the gut, an energy beam erupting from the barrel and punching a hole through the wave of sickly green and orange psychedelic nonsense washing down around the wobbly bubble of energy around the cabin. For a moment, he can see blue sky and redwoods and there is an aching hole of silence- like the spot where a missing tooth should be- before the chaos closes back up around it, filling the forest with weirdness and nauseating light. It gets the attention of something big in the distance, and Shermie grins through his beard despite himself.

"Alright, guess we get to see what this thing does to a kaiju, then," he says, trying not to sound too happy about it.

"Guess we do," Jessie says, leaning against his shoulder. "Hey, I have good news and I have bad news that you can't do anything about and therefore shouldn't be worryin' over."

"Let's hear it _I guess_ ," Shermie sighs, closing one eye before settling on what looks like a swarm of those little eyebats. "Bad news first, though."

"Oh, good," she says, and when he gives her a questioning glance she smiles crookedly at him. "Well, the good news don't make sense if you haven't heard the bad news yet."

"Sounds about right," he agrees, taking a shot at the swarm and grinning as most of them shower to the ground as inanimate hunks of eyebat-shaped granite.

"Well, the bad news is that your brother, who you love dearly and who certainly means well, has fled the premises with his old beau Rick Sanchez and is currently- based on what info we've got- attemptin' to rescue Ripley and probably make an attempt to rescue our also-missing and endangered brothers as well," she says.

"Those knuckleheads are doing _what_ ," Shermie snaps, lining up a shot with an appendage on the approaching giant monster that could either be a giant monster-head or possibly just a giant nasty monster-arm, but either way, hopefully something important enough to cripple the being. "Sounds like they're joyridin' into a trap because they didn't stop and think for a damn minute, angelfish!"

"Oh, yes, because Pines men always think clearly and rationally in times of crisis," Jessie says blithely, and Shermie gives her a long-suffering sigh, which she ignores. "Are you ready for the good news or would you like to shoot that big fella first?"

"Shoot the big fella first," he mutters, and she gives him a small pat on the shoulder. The thing that approaches looks a bit like Cthulhu, if Cthulhu was also a bodybuilder. "Too bad Lovecraft wasn't alive to see this guy. Not too bad-lookin' if you disregard the terrifyin' squid for a head-"

The Sexy Cthulhu Monster raises a hand and something starts to glow ominously in the palm of his hand, and Shermie fires at him before it can shoot the cabin with whatever grossness it was planning on shooting their way. There is a terrible and eldritch screaming- and a strong gust of wind carrying heat and the smell of cooking fish- as most of his arm and shoulder are blasted to bits and the rest of him catches on fire. He collapses with a howl that goes on for quite a bit, and another wave of the unfortunate smell, which continues longer than the screaming does.

"Thanks for that," Jess says.

"Bet we could send out a party to grab some of that meat," Shermie says reflectively. "There's good eatin' on enormous squid monsters."

"You're havin' way too much fun, Sherm," she replies, and he gives her a tired little smile. "Ready for the good news?"

"Lay it on me, angelfish."

"We have a pretty good plan for taking care of everything so we can contain this mess and actually get to where we'll be safe to leave," she says.

"Oh, good, did those skippers come up with it?"

"They're helping, but mostly it's the kids and that little boy that looks like Jan Crouch," she says, and he makes a face. "Listen, dear. There's- a couple of reasons for this, but apparently nobody can know all the specifics of the plan, since that Bill fella technically has the ability to check in on us anytime he wants, although- somethin' about the barrier makes the kids think he might not be able to do all he normally can, it's a bit of a crap shoot."

"Sure, which part of the plan do I get?" he asks, scanning the surrounding woods for a suitable target.

"Ah, well, peaseblossom, you're gonna be... mostly keeping the surrounding area clear of nasties while some of the heavy lifting gets taken care of. So mostly what you're already doin', right! Apparently the kids have learned a thing or two from your brothers, and the science types have a thing or two up their sleeves, too." He glances at her, brows furrowed. "So- you know, there will be a time when we'll ask for an assist for some of the other bits, but-"

"You're not tellin' me anything about anything else happening?" Shermie asks.

"It was somewhat mentioned that all of the Pines men might be prone to acting rash in times of high emotion," she says carefully.

"So where are the kids now, what's their part in all this?"

"You're gonna dislike it, darlin', but they are, you know, technically, under adult supervision at this time," she says. Shermie presses his mouth into a line. Jessie puts a hand on his arm. "You have to trust that they're going to be okay, Sherm, because the worst case scenario is a danger no matter what they or we do."

"That's bullshit," he tells her.

"Pardon?" she asks flatly, and he sighs.

"I'm sorry. That's very upsetting. I don't know who has their eyes on the kids and they shouldn't be doing- wait, no, they're not even in the cabin, are they? Jess- no, that's-"

"We're doing the best we can, peaseblossom," Jessie says gently, and he hunches his shoulders, glaring out into the middle distance. "You can argue the point later, because there's nothing to be done about it now."

"Ain't happy about any of this," he informs her shortly. "Pick a target, angelfish."

"Movement at the treeline," she tells him, and he gives it a gander. "Nasty little fella I saw with that Bill fuck-"

"I see 'im," Shermie confirms, spotting a greenskinned thing like a gremlin on steroids with eight-balls for eyes. "You sure he's not a local, love?"

"He dragged my petrified brother through the dirt by the feet," Jessie says coldly, and, well, that's good enough for Shermie. He fires and hits the guy dead-center, and green flesh unravels like a badly-made sweater, spilling billiards balls everywhere.

"Gross," Shermie mutters, and Jess gives him a pat.

"Ain't worse than the smell off Sexy Cthulhu," she says, and he gives her a curt nod. She gives him a peck. "I understand yer mad that you didn't get to weigh in and that yer scared for our grandkids."

"I am," he replies gruffly. "Love ya."

"Love you too. Keep anything you can see away from that field- anyone inside the cabin is safe but there's a few things people will be doin' in that direction, too."

"Always bossin' me around," he grumbles, tilting his cheek to get another smooch. She obliges, stroking the back of his neck once before turning to go back inside. He sighs noisily, slapping the side of the gun. "You understand me, Benny Cannon."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He stares down at the journal in his hands, afraid to read it, afraid  _not_ to.

Ma hadn't had much of her own, when the end came. No surprise, Shermie supposes. She'd married Filbrick as a teenager.

Filbrick had handed him the old, leatherbound book, masking-tape all over the spine and across the front, Ma's perfect cursive script on the cover: Sara Medina de Pines; it smells like Ma's cigarettes and the knockoff Chanel No. 5 she's used all her life. Shermie hugs it to his chest, staring blankly at the wall.

 _Fix this family._ She had been so sure that he'd be able to, but Lee hadn't come, and he'd run out of her funeral like a child, and had allowed Ford and Filbrick to get into a fistfight through his inaction. Lee could have fixed it, Shermie thinks helplessly, his throat tight with emotion. But Filbrick would have tortured Lee for being there, too. Ford and Lee might have fought, but neither of them would have come to blows. Shermie should have known what would happen, he should have kept everything under control, for Ma's sake.

He would have gone back in sooner, he thinks, if that damn G-man hadn't been lurking around. It startles him a little, because before he laid eyes on him Shermie hadn't really even thought about what had happened in '67 in months, maybe years- not the friends he made, the friends he'd lost, the things he'd had to kill- and he sort of wonders if Johnny did something to him back then, to protect him from the memory of all that. He presses his nose against the book, inhaling deeply.

Johnny had been a good friend, in those days. They've spoken two or three times since, but life gets away from you, and he's not sure how long it's been now, but if Shermie points his thoughts in that direction he can remember the phone number Johnny'd given him.

He stands, giving the darkened hallway leading to his and Jessie's bedroom a guilty look, before turning and grabbing his phone off the wall, playing nervously with the cord as the operator connects him to the long distance line. He dials in the number and lets it ring- at first, he's not sure if anyone's going to pick up, but after several rings someone picks up, some lady with a weirdly atonal, nasally voice.

"Thank you for calling the Seneca Crosswinds Parks and Recreation Authority. Our office is currently closed, but if you have an emergency or know your party's extension-"

"It's not an emergency," he says quickly. "Nothing like that, I'm just trying to get a hold of my friend, uh- I don't know his extension, this is Shermie, uh, Sherman Pines, by the way," he adds, almost dropping the receiver. "Sorry. Uh. Just- you know, if you get this, I guess, just, uh, call me back." He tells the lady his phone number and hangs up before he can embarrass himself further.

He curls up with Ma's old journal on the couch, feet up on the coffee table as he considers opening it. Apparently she'd left one for each of her kids- whether or not Ford took his, Shermie doesn't know, and Filbrick hadn't said anything about the one that had been meant for Lee. Maybe if Shermie hadn't been such a coward, he would have asked, would have taken Lee's journal too, so that the old bastard couldn't hold on to it.

Shermie cracks the book open, just the cover- in the righthand corner, at the very top where the binding was glued to the leather-covered cardboard, his mother's handwriting, #1. And his name, Sherman Alfonso Pines, and his birthday, and what day it was- a Tuesday- and what he weighed, all in the same exact shade of faded ink. He wonders if she wrote it when he was just an infant, or if she started this journal later.

He flips through a few pages- some things stick out, like a section in the middle where she carefully taped in almost a dozen of the letters he'd sent her from Vietnam, and the scribbled notes underneath that she must have used when writing her letters back to him. A vague feeling of guilt washes over him- he doesn't think he still has any of the letters she'd written him- and his eye falls onto the page, where she wrote, _It's alright that you won't keep these letters, son, what's important is that you get them._

He blinks back an unexpected tear, sniffling hard as he hurries to another page. This one is kind of cute- a rough, softly rounded sketch of him and Jessie. It's pretty good- it's obvious where the twins got their art talents from, for one- although she seems to have drawn in a lot of little doodles of anchors and wiggly lines in and around it. Maybe she got bored sometimes, while taking calls. He spots a few more drawings here and there, along with old photographs faded to yellows and reds. He starts to think that maybe he should find a way to make copies of her pictures and drawings, somehow, just for record-keeping, when he flips a few more pages and comes across a weird, nearly-empty page with a pair of lists.

One list, topped with LOST and written in red:

1969

 ~~1978~~   1982

1994 - 1994?

Next to a list- FOUND- written in green:

1967

1987? - 2012

2012

2012

2012

"Wow, Ma, am I even gonna be alive by then?" he asks quietly, huffing a small laugh. More little doodles dot the page- in the dim light, it's hard to tell what they are, scribbled little hands and odd-looking targets and little swords and little fishes, he thinks. He'll have to check in the morning. He flips through a few more pages- honestly, he thinks he could sit and reread this book a few times, just to get one more feel for the way she spoke and wrote, just to smell her perfume again- and, a fifth of the way from the end, he comes to what is obviously the last page she wrote to him.

Her handwriting is different- the ink is dark and bold and her letters are shakily drawn, as if she had a hard time bearing the weight of the pen across the page. He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath- surely he isn't ready for her last message to him, surely it's something final, a goodbye- but he opens his eyes anyway, because he knows what she would have wanted him to do.

To Sherman, my oldest, some bits of advice-

"Of course," he sighs, and allows an almost-smile to return.

-there is so much that you will enjoy about having grandchildren. Listen; believe; trust in them. There is a magic in love, the real stuff, not those parlor tricks that get thrown around and mistaken for power. There is a magic in family, and in your friends, and in second chances. It will be important to teach Jake, and it will be important to teach his kids, but it's important for you, too. Your love is and will be important. You are and will be important.

"Aw, Ma," he huffs.

You should know or at least guess that some of the time I was trying to prepare you: prepare you for this, prepare you for what will come. I'm sorry that I couldn't do better. I'm sorry that I couldn't help you find Lee. I'm sorry I won't be there when Lee finds you.

He shuts his eyes. He needs a minute.

You've been such a good brother and father and friend and son. You'll be such a good brother and father and friend and grandfather. I couldn't be more proud of you if I tried, Sherm. If you haven't done the Colliers trial with the rich boy and the nuns yet, make sure you drain that creep dry before you 'accidentally' release the papers that get him put away. Put Jakey through college with the cash.

"What the hell are you talking about, Ma," Shermie mutters, bemused.

Seven years later: "Dammit, Ma, that's not ethical," he sighs, and releases the papers (accidentally, of course) that put that creep away.

Last but not least, sweetheart: keep a space open in your heart for more. There will always be more. There will always be those who need it, and you, my son, were born with an extraordinary gift. You are so good at love. You are so good.

There's nothing else. Shermie takes a deep breath, and when he tries to stop himself he can't, because the tears are already streaming down his face. He wasn't ready. There were so many times he could have been better- given her more, soaked up more of her, and now she's gone, and he-

The phone rings. He moves quickly towards it, unwilling to let it wake Jessie or Jake, puts the receiver to his ear.

"Evening, uh- is- is this Shermie Pines?" a familiar man's voice asks, and Shermie lets out an embarrassing sob. "Sherm? You alright there? You sound- do you need-?"

"Hey, Johnny," he says, his voice shaking. "You know, uh- I could really use a friend?"

John's voice is warm, calming- a hand on his back in the dark, a solid presence at his side, a promise that they both managed to keep. "Of course, man. I'm here."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 1967 and he's shivering, despite the heat. He has an unopened letter from Ma in the bottom of his bag, and he's afraid that it'll have a list of names on it of people who won't be coming home this time. He's not sure why he's afraid of that in particular, but her last letter had been full of weirdness, too- nothing he can name, nothing weirder than growing up with her as a parent, just- weird. Weirdness. And he can't stop shaking, even though he knows objectively that whatever it is he saw out there, it's just- meat, really. Just meat.

"Hey," someone says, startling him- he had thought, for one uneasy moment, that he was alone out here.

"Hey," he says back. The guy- a dark-skinned man about his age, wearing the odd (mercenary?) uniform the team of newcomers has, one of the few with an identifiably American accent- gives him a smile. "You must be the guy who's helping us out here."

"That's me," Shermie says, offering a hand and getting a firm handshake. He points at the man's nametag. "That's not your real last name, is it? Like, that's- some sorta codename, or-?"

"Sadly, no," the guy says, grinning. "It's my real last name."

"It's a good last name," Shermie backtracks, raising his hands. "Like those superhero books my little brothers read. You read comic books, Mr. Savage?"

"No, but I should probably start, right?" he says, laughing. "You can probably call me John, though. I think we're gonna be working together a lot the next couple days." Neither of them know that it'll be closer to two months before they can get somewhere safe after this.

"Alright, Johnny," Shermie says, doing the best Johnny Carson voice he can muster, which- given the circumstances- isn't very good. He tries for a smile, anyway. "So if we're gonna be killin' more of those horrible alien meat monster guys, you can probably call me Shermie."

Something soft and smiling puts two good men in the same place at the same time.

It won't be the last time it does this for them. 


	5. Paint It Black

"This has been a shitshow since day one," Rick says, as if Stan doesn't _know_ that, as if Stan's life hasn't been a series of disastrous shitshows since he was a homeless seventeen year old.

"When is it not a shitshow," Stan mutters, and Rick huffs, leaning against the passengerside window. They're going slower than Stan likes, but they have no choice- it's just too crazy out there. "Look- we have a team of eggheads working on this, which is, frankly, where you belong- you didn't _have_ to come with me, you know?"

"Don't f-fuckin' tell me what I _have_ to do," Rick snaps, unflinching as a wave of baby-blue slime hits the bubbled protection around the car, turning to a cascade of Mardi Gras beads and spiders as it hits the field of effect. The wheels crunch over cheap plastic and exoskeletons for a bit, before the chaos outside simmers back down to a dull roar. Stan gives him a look- just for a second, they can't afford to wipe out with the road like this- and the radio stutters on for a few seconds of static and something that sounds like a snippet of a rap song in French, before going silent again. Rick doesn't react, his olive-toned hands clenching the material of his labcoat over his knees.

"This is why we didn't work it out," Stan says simply, and Rick scoffs. "I mean it, Rick, don't- don't you think if we'd trusted one another we would have talked more? About what was really going on?"

"You didn't tell me shit because _you_ didn't trust me," Rick says curtly. "D-don't get it twisted, Pines."

"You had a twelve year old that I didn't know about until I caught you talking to her on my landline," Stan snaps. "And you lied about it when I asked- you didn't actually admit you _had_ a kid until you showed up with your grandkids, Rick, how was I ever supposed to trust you?"

"My family was none of your f-f-fucking concern, _Stanford_ ," Rick says, acid dripping off every syllable.

"Yeah, maybe that was the proof I needed that I couldn't trust you with mine, alright," Stan huffs, glaring at the road. "I d'wanna have this fight again-"

"Then why the _fuck_ did you start it back up!?" Rick asks abruptly.

"-I'm just saying, you always fucking did this, you always- acting like I wasn't smart enough to pick up on the fact that something was important to you, that something bothered you, that you were scared," Stan sighs, and Rick folds his arms and glares out the window. "Why are you pretendin' not to be _invested_ , Rick?"

"I didn't fucking say you weren't smart enough," Rick mutters, as if Stan's gonna fall for that one again.  

"Why are you here, Rick? Why are you here, doin' this with me?" Stan asks.

"What, you think I'd just- I'm not one of those shitty Ricks who w-wouldn't protect their families," he replies.

"If you were trying to protect your grandkids you could have done that from the Shack-" Stan starts, and Rick makes a quick, dismissive motion with his hands. "No, just- be _honest_ , for once-"

"How are you this fucking dense?" Rick asks, shooting him an evil look. "How are you- how are you this slow on the f-fucking uptake?"

"Stop tryin' to make this about me," Stan says flatly. "I know you're not here for me, Rick, but _why are you here_?"

"Stan-" Rick's fists go down against the tops of his knees. "Stop trying to force me to t-talk, Pines, okay, why are _you_ here? Why aren't _you_ back at the, the Shack with your kids-"

"Stop tryin' to make this about _me_!" Stan snaps, pulling to a stop under a hopefully-sturdy tree- they're close enough now that they can see the curving edge of jade green, over and behind the trees. "I'm not gonna stop til you _say_ it-"

"Why are we stopped?" Rick demands, and Stan drags a hand over his face.

"There's a bubble of normal behind us," he mutters, and Rick turns to look. "Someone's tryin' to catch up."

"Goddammit," Rick hisses.

"Tell me," Stan says quietly. "Sanchez, before we run out of privacy- you need to say it out loud, you need to admit it, because if this doesn't go the way we want it to go, the failure has to have been worth somethin'. Maybe you don't think you owe it to me after all these years, alright, fine, but-" He shakes his head, breathing out in a huff. "It's the end of the world, Rick, and a couple of sixty-year-olds drove through fifteen miles of nightmare in a fifty-five year old car because _maybe_ we can rescue our _friend_." Stan watches him carefully, giving him every chance- just once, this last chance he might get- to just admit out loud what nobody's wanted to admit to one another.

"She's n-not my _friend_ ," Rick says quietly, and Stan sighs, drumming his hands on the wheel. "How long have you known- did Ford tell you?"

"We haven't really- it hasn't really come up, and I really only just.... It's taken me all summer to figure it out, Rick," Stan tells him, looking over his shoulder at the approaching spot of sanity. "At first I just didn't _like_ her, some know-it-all comes around here, knowing things nobody's supposed to know, seein' right through me... maybe, you know, maybe reminding me of some people I didn't want to remember." Stan rubs the pad of his thumb over the aged leather of the wheel.

Rick turns in the seat, giving Stan a cold look before turning to face the rear window. "Still can't tell who it is. Could be your brother."

"Could be," Stan says quietly. "You know... I got to likin' her pretty quick, even though it was kinda- rough, sometimes. Mostly because of all the ways she's not like you, if I'm gonna be real honest. She looks more like you did at thirty-seven than you think. She does that stupid thing you did, always putting on a brave face, scared of anybody knowing you need help- that a Sanchez family tradition or what?"

"Get to the p-point," Rick says, and Stan sighs.

"Do you know," he says, "that your sister can't speak Spanish?"

"Bullshit," Rick says, shooting him an irritated look. "It's her first language, of course she can-"

"Not even a little bit," Stan tells him, snorting. "She has a translator implant doohickey that she has to run everything by first, she's just reading off from that, and her accent's even worse than mine. She can't speak Spanish unless she's blackout-drunk or talkin' in her sleep- which, uh, also like you, is pretty often."

"I don't talk in my-" Rick starts, and Stan gives him a look, both eyebrows raised over his glasses. "So- wh-what, you're saying she knows about- when she's drunk she remembers me or something? Did she say something, or-?"

"Little things. I don't- I dunno if I'd say she remembers you, Rick. More like she doesn't remember the person she is nowadays, when she gets like that," Stan says, and Rick puts his hand on his face. Stan- well, now's not really the time, to be honest, and Stan's not really sure if they're going to be rescuing Ripley so much as they're going to be stopping that triangle from using her against Ford, but he wishes they could just sit everybody down and get some straight answers out in the open. "You have to know you two are a lot alike."

"Beth thinks she's some sort of illegitimate daughter or something," Rick says, huffing. "How'd you figure this out before she did? Before- before Ripley did, for that matter?"

"I didn't really know for sure until this car ride," Stan says, shrugging. "I didn't put everything together- you know it's been kinda nuts around here- I didn't put everything together until I asked myself why, when I told you to keep the kids from following me, you insisted on comin' along, too. And yeah, you've never been a guy who'd risk everything for a friend or a lover, but for family? You'd burn the world down."

"Yeah, you would know," Rick says, and Stan shrugs, gesturing around them. He can't exactly argue the point, because apparently that's what he's been doing for thirty years, burning down the world one inch at a time for his family.

"That car's goin' kinda- kinda faster than we were, huh," Stan says, adjusting his glasses. Rick squints, his frown deepening.

"That's not a car- it's a golf cart," he hisses, and they both sit up in their seats. "Those little m-mother fuckers!"

"Shut up, Rick," Stan snaps, his knuckles going white as he grips the back of the bench seat. They're just close enough that Stan can make out the general shape of his golf cart, and four blurry shapes sitting in it. "Those kids are _so grounded_ when this apocalypse is over."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He buckles a sweaty, dirty idiot into the front seat- ducking back into the Shack for just a moment, to yell at Wendy to put an eye on the kids while he's gone- and by the time he gets back to the blue Ripleymobile and opens the other door she's dead asleep, completely still and curled up against the window.

He pauses, after buckling himself into the driver's side.

"Hey," Stan says, snapping his fingers at her, and doing it again when she doesn't respond. "Hey! Savage, wake up for a minute."

"Ngh," she groans, her eyelids fluttering but ultimately staying shut.

"Wake up," he tells her, reaching over. "I'm gonna check your pulse, don't be weird."

"M'not..." She trails off, and he puts his fingertips against her throat, frowning. She's warm- too warm, if he didn't know how cool the woods are even on a sunny June day he'd think she had a heatstroke- and her pulse is a little fast. Even in her sleep, she's babying her right arm- which is weird, because he's pretty sure she's left-handed- and her fingers are swollen and twitching, like she can't commit to making a fist just yet.

"You're not doin' so hot," he tells her. Her mouth moves but she doesn't wake up enough to respond; he sighs, starting the engine. "That damn Cutebiker kid's going to be so obnoxious about this." She doesn't respond to that, either.

Stan drives over to the bed and breakfast she told him about, mentally reviewing the contents of Ford's journal- does it say anything about chupacabra bites? He thinks probably not- he's heard of chupacabras, but mostly only as a thing on TV, mostly only in the last few years. He has a vague idea that Soos has talked to him about it before, although for the life of him he can't think of anything either concrete or useful. He sighs and pulls into a parking spot- it's not his job to do first aid on Ford's pretend space-wife, is it? Except Ford- Ford will probably be pretty pissed at him when he gets back, and doubly so if Stan has to explain that his wife can't be here because she got septic after an altercation in the woods.

And the kids like her- well, Mabel likes her, but Mabel likes everyone, and Dipper's still suspicious of her, but it's been not even a whole week since the kids came up from California and Dipper's suspicious of Stan, too. They'd probably be annoyed at the very least if she perished under mysterious circumstances, or whatever. It's no skin off his back whatever happens to this crazy broad, but maybe- maybe!!- it might be worth the trouble to do the bare minimum to keep her arm from falling off or whatever. And then maybe if her arm does fall off or something, well, nobody can blame him for not being a medical doctor or a space doctor or whatever it is that she needs.

He comes around and picks her up as best she can- she's almost six feet of gangly limbs and dead weight, and at the thought _dead weight_ he has to fight back a rush of panic and feel for her pulse again.

"Get on yer feet, I can't carry you," he grunts, and her legs do move a little, but when she tries to put her weight down they collapse under her, almost knocking him off his balance. He catches her around the waist, but- shit, didn't she mention last night that her knees were broken a few years back? Stan hesitates, looking furtively around- nobody in this town really cares about or notices weirdness, but- well- even for this town, this is about to look really fucking creepy.

He leans down just enough to get a good grip, before hefting her up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Cheese and crackers," he wheezes, staggering slightly towards the door. He manages to get her to the door and even paws it open, and then he hits his first snag as he tries to sneak across the front room.

"Stanford Pines!" Cutebiker snaps, jumping up from his seat behind the checkin desk and throwing his copy of Bowhunters Monthly onto the floor. "You got thirty seconds to explain what you're doin' with that gal before I tase you!"

"Hell on _ice_ , Cutebiker, she's too heavy to stand around talkin'," Stan groans, and Tyler points him towards a couch covered in doilies. He puts her down, breathing a sigh of relief as his spine and knees pop back into existence. "Ripley was up in the woods-"

Cutebiker's entire demeanor changes- he darts around Stan and shuts the front door, glancing out the window before twitching the curtains shut.

"What is it, Lumberjack Syndrome?" he asks sharply, and Stan shakes his head.

"She said she got, uh, hurt or something, I think it might be heatstroke though," Stan fudges somewhat. "She was almost fine, but she started slurring her words and passed out walking to her car. I think she hurt her arm, though, not her head-"

"You didn't call an ambulance?" Cutebiker sighs, and Stan shrugs uncomfortably.

"I don't- look, buddy, I don't- hey!" Stan cries out, as Cutebiker dips his hand into her pocket and starts rifling through her wallet. "The heck are you doin', stealin' her wallet?"

"I'm looking for an insurance card, Stanford," Cutebiker says, rolling his eyes. " _Obviously_. Um, but-" He sighs, closing it. "You know she's got a fake ID, right?"

"Yeah," Stan says weakly, clearing his throat. "I mean. That- that's my ex-wife, so- you know, the last name probably-"

"Arlene Machiavelli is a _nice_ name, but it ain't Miss Ripley's name," Cutebiker says, smiling faintly. "Look, I know it looks real bad to roll in there with no legal identification or insurance, but if she's in this kind of a state you should really-"

"She's not gonna wanna do that, come on," Stan protests weakly, and Cutebiker frowns. Stan puts his hands together, pleading. "I'll put her to bed, I'll make sure she doesn't have any serious injuries, and- and you'll keep an eye on her, just until I can come over again, you know I got those kids to look after, I can't just leave'em-"

"Stanford Pines, you stop with that face," the kid sighs- well, he's always thought of him as a kid, but he's gotta be Ripley's age at the very least. "I'll check in on Miss Ripley but if I think there's anything fishy going on, I'm callin' the hospital."

"Fine! Fine." Stan mops his forehead with a handkerchief, catching Cutebiker making a weird face at him. "What now?"

"It's so darn cute you have a handkerchief," he replies, and Stan huffs, tucking it back into his pocket. "Alright, Mr. Pines, help me git your friend into bed. You want a damp towel or anything to help bring her temp down?"

"Well-" Stan huffs a sigh. "Maybe, I dunno. If she got stung or bit by something I wanna clean it off, so- yeah, I guess so, maybe something to clean a wound, I think she mentioned she has a first aid kit."

"Well, alright, let me know," Cutebiker says. Between the two of them, it's marginally easier to cart Ripley around, although dragging her upstairs is something of a trial that Stan would prefer to never repeat again. They toss her unceremoniously onto the bed, and Stan leans down and picks up her legs to straighten her out a bit- Cutebiker hesitates, clearing his throat. "Don't want to have to warn you that I'm still ready to tase you if I think anything improper's happenin', Stan."

"I would never," Stan says, and Cutebiker shrugs, waving the taser around. "Come on!"

"I'm not gonna presume either way, Stan, I'm just lettin' you know," Cutebiker says sternly. "I'll be back with a couple towels and some warm water, then."

"Cryin' out loud," Stan mutters under his breath, before wrestling with Ripley's dirty sneakers with a heavy sigh. "Guess it's better'n pretendin' it's not his business, huh?" He manages to yank them off, and a cascade of dirt and pebbles and bits of sticks and leaves come out. "Sweet Moses, look at this. You'd think it'd bother you to walk with all this shit in there."

He tosses both shoes in the direction of the nightstand- Cutebiker's going to be annoyed at the mess but he super doesn't care. He brushes the detritus off the bed onto the rug, peeling Ripley's socks off and wrinkling his nose- the bottoms of her feet are a mass of relatively new scar tissue. He supposes that might explain why she wasn't complaining more about the junk in her shoes, though.

"Time to take a look at that arm," he tells her cheerfully, which she ungraciously ignores, being passed out and all. Stan gets up, his back creaking unhappily as he hobbles over from the foot of the bed to sit next to her side. "Alright, look, it's not weird, I'm checkin' out the wound," he tells her. Her brow furrows somewhat, and almost as an afterthought he gently reaches over and takes her glasses off, folding them and putting them on the nightstand. There's a pretty heavy bag still on one shoulder- he guesses the costume jewelry she'd told him about- and he hefts it onto the other side of the bed for her to deal with later. Stan looks down at her, sighing- the jacket is going to have to go, the sleeve and front all torn and covered in gore, some of which must be hers. Her hands and face and neck are dirty- her clothes are dirty but he thinks they might have been dirty before all this, to be honest. There's a nasty-looking hunting knife under her pillow, in easy reach- for someone, maybe, who's used to needing it, or used to being threatened, anyway.

"What a mess," he tells her softly. "Couldn't Ford have space gladiator married a functional adult with survival instincts?"

No response. Stan pats her head, sighing again. "Suppose that means Ford's still not a functional adult with survival instincts, then, too. Ah well, like calls to like, am I right?"

She's still pretty warm, but already it's not as bad as it had been in the car- maybe he's more worried than he should be about the chupacabra poison or whatever it was that got her. It really might just be a heatstroke, after all. He checks her scalp anyway, looking for bumps or scrapes, but that, at least, seems to be another unfounded worry.

Cutebiker comes in, shielding his eyes with a towel, and Stan snorts.

"She's not indecent, if that's what you're thinkin'," he says, and Cutebiker lowers it, frowning. "Just checkin' to make sure she didn't hit her noggin at some point. That for me?"

"You're sayin' this happened in the woods?" Cutebiker asks dully, and Stan shrugs. "Stan, that- that's an odd amount of blood to be on somebody."

"She said something got her, uh- maybe a coyote, I dunno, I haven't seen what her arm looks like yet," Stan says, fudging again. "Hasn't really said much, to be honest, just that her arm got hurt."

"Well, I guess we'll find out," Cutebiker says. "Can you get the jacket off?"

"Yeah, sure," Stan says, unzipping the front. "Let me just-"

Her eyes don't open- it's kinda worse, they just flutter, like she's fighting to wake up- but her entire body flinches back. She doesn't even attempt to go for the knife- which is good, in the long run, obviously- but her arms go up to try to ward Stan off, her face crumpling in something closer to terror than pain. Stan and Cutebiker both freeze in horror.

"Nngh," she moans, shaking. "Don't- don't- I was good, Mami, don't-"

 _Pain would have been better_. Stan exhales shakily, giving Ripley's shoulder a shake.

"It's me, Ripley, hey. It's Stan. Wake up, it's- it's not-" He trails off, not even sure what he's telling her she's safe from, not really willing to think to hard about what it might be. "It's just me and, uh-"

"Tyler," Cutebiker supplies, looking pale but slightly calmer than Stan feels. "Is- is this new?"

"I don't know," Stan mutters, huffing out a breath and giving her face another pat. "Come on, Ripley, it's me."

She doesn't exactly relax- she was already mostly unconscious- but she goes limp, her brow still furrowed as she presses her face against his palm. Stan gives Cutebiker a desperate look. "Could be hallicinating?"

"I'm not sure," Cutebiker admits, wringing his hat in both hands. Fair enough. Stan tries again, gently peeling the remains of her jacket off- this time she doesn't move too much, other than her eyes fluttering half-open.

"You awake now, Ripley?" Stan asks softly.

"Nuh," she mumbles. "Tired."

"I know," he sighs, frowning at the bandages around her arm- mostly looks like strips of t-shirt material and spiderwebbing, which is both gross and disturbing, but luckily it seems to have done the job insofar as "being a bandage" goes. He gets most of it off and hisses sharply at the wound underneath- a handful of nasty, reddened puncture wounds, including one that looks like it went all the way through and out, although at least it doesn't seem to have nicked anything deeper than the skin on the inside of her bicep. It's still pretty tender-looking, although it seems like it's just beginning to scab over.

"Yeesh, willya look at that," Stan mutters, and Cutebiker dips part of a towel in the warm water and wrings it out a little before passing it to Stan. Her eyes open to slits at the feeling of Stan gently wiping her skin off, and Stan waggles his eyebrows at her. "I told ya not to go into the forest, didn't I?"

"Dick," she sighs, her mouth twitching into almost-a-smile as her eyes close again.

"See, this is why you're the _ex_ -wife, you're impossible ta live with," Stan suggests, but she's unconscious again- or, well, asleep.

"An amicable divorce, was it?" Cutebiker asks, and Stan snorts.

"Something like that," he says. She hadn't been kidding about the first aid kit- she doesn't seem to own too many changes of clothes, considering Stan knows this is everything she has, but the first aid kit looks like she could and probably has performed minor surgery with it. He bandages her arm up, tucking the blanket up around her before he remembers to feel self-conscious about Cutebiker watching.

"I think she's gonna be okay," Stan says, even though he doesn't know that. Cutebiker nods.

"I'll check on her in a couple hours, see if she wants to eat or drink anything. This might be somethin' she wants to sleep off," he says. "Any, uh- any medical history stuff I oughta know, though?"

"I, uh-" Stan licks his lower lip, waving a hand before letting it come to rest on her shoulder. "I... don't know what she's been up to the past few years, no."

"Okay," Cutebiker sighs. "I'll keep an eye on her, like I said- but, Stan, if things get much worse I'm calling the hospital first, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, sheesh, you said," Stan huffs. Well, if that happens she'll be on her own, he doesn't have the money for a hospital visit for some lady he barely knows.

He makes it home and feeds the kids and- well, this isn't too weird, right- he drags Wax Stan over to the couch and sits down next to him. It's not the same as sitting next to a real person- naturally! Of course!- but if he only looks at him from the corner of his eye, he can almost pretend.

"You know," Stan says, careful not to look too close, "from the way she talks about you, yer wife's got all the common sense between the two a'you, and if that's right I really gotta wonder. If that mess is the sensible one, what the heck're you like, Ford?"

There's no reason to feel upset when Wax Stan doesn't respond. Stan forces himself to look over at it anyway, a terribly fake-feeling smile stretching his mouth wide.

"I'm gonna go hit the can," he says thinly. "Don't you go nowhere."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"No," Stan says, getting out of the Stanleymobile and pointing at the backseat. "I don't wanna hear it! Get your butts in that car _now_!"

"Grunkle Stan, you guys are driving straight into a trap!" Dipper says, pointing in the direction of the bubble in the sky. "Bill's just trying to lure you in so he can use you against Grunkle Ford!"

" _In the car, now_ ," Stan repeats, glowering. "I don't know how you kids dodged that triangle's goons, but you're gonna get in that backseat where it's slightly safer than in that stupid golf cart-"

"Come on, Mr. Pines, we want to help Aunt Ripley, too, but none of this is adding up!" Summer says, pointing at Rick. "Grandpa Rick, tell him- tell him it's a big trap, tell him that making a big obvious pocket dimension with her name on it isn't something people do if they _don't want_ you going there!"

Rick sighs. "Kids, come on, listen to the grownups, alright? We know what we're-"

"Rick, you've been emotionally c-compromised!" Morty says, visibly flustered. "We know that! And it's okay! But you guys know that even if she's alive-"

"Shut it, Morty," Rick says in a warning tone, but Stan can see him deflate from here.

"- _even if_ she's still alive, if she's in some pocket dimension it means that he rewrote all the laws of reality around _keeping_ her there! He's trying to make you guys all be in one place so he can have more pawns to use against Ford-"

"Morty, _stop_ ," Rick says sharply, and to his credit, the kid stops.

"Grandpa Rick," Summer says quietly- she's got her lanky arms around the twins, and they're both looking scared, Mabel's face going red with emotion, Dipper's eyes brimming with tears. Stan drags his hands down his face- _these children_ , who came here to try to, he guesses, talk sense into him about the futility of rescuing their aunt, and yet it kinda looks like they hadn't really thought that the reason it's futile is that she might already be dead.

"Mabel, Dipper- come here," Stan says, getting down on one knee, and they might be almost-thirteen but they're not too old to run headlong for his arms, burying their faces in his neck. "Come on, you two, what would your grandpa-" He pauses, thinking about Shermie for a moment. "Okay, bad example, he'd be here with ya, but what would your grandma say if she knew you guys snuck out here like this?"

"Grandma _does_ know, she's in on the plan, Grunkle Stan," Dipper says reproachfully, sniffling loudly. "She helped us come up with parts of it."

"I'll- I don't know how to react to that information, but she can't have possibly thought this was a _great_ idea," Stan says, and Mabel giggles wetly, rubbing her eyes.

"We didn't come to try to stop you, Grunkle Stan, we're here to help," she says, and Stan sighs down at her.

"Pumpkin-"

"We came armed," Morty says, looking up at his big sister, who nods. "We came prepared to run. And- and we know that this is going to get B-Bill's attention, and that's- trust us, it's fine, it's going to happen and that's wh-what we want."

"No, what's going to happen that you are getting in this car and waiting for us to come back, at which point we will drive you to the Shack-" Rick sighs, and Morty throws his hands up.

"We're doing this and you can't s-stop us!" he says- not whiny or shrilly, which is a shame, because it'd be easier to tell the kid no if he sounded his age right now. Stan moves his hand and Morty takes a deep breath. "We have a plan and it's going to work. We have tools that you two don't have, and we know stuff that you two don't know, and we're warded and anchored and everything that we need to not let Bill change our personal realities, and the only thing we need is you two to trust us."

"Well," Summer says after a moment of suffocating quiet. "That, and we wanted to make sure one of you was carrying this."

She picks a broad, chest-high walking stick up out of the back of the golf cart- it's sturdy-looking and inlaid with mother-of-pearl designs, and after a moment Stan recognizes it. He's kicked it out of his way every time he went to vacuum under Ripley's bed this summer. It looks like silver wire and braided unicorn hair has been wrapped around part of it, and somebody'd made a point of using a sharpie to draw the symbol Ford'd had them draw on the house onto the wood.

"What is that, some kinda- magic stick or something?" Stan asks, wincing as the words leave his mouth and hoping Rick- or his teenagers, for that matter- doesn't comment on the awkward working.

"Well, apparently, yeah, but also- like, it's just a really good stick for beating the crap out of anybody who tries to stop us from finding Aunt Ripley," Summer says, grinning. "We thought you might want to hold on to this. Just in case."

"Can't have too many big sticks," Stan says, before glaring daggers at Rick in case he wants to comment about that one, too.

"Stop lookin' at me," Rick snaps.

"You stop-" Stan starts.

"Guys! We can fight after the apocalypse!" Dipper says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a motion that looks altogether too familiar. Stan thinks he knows that this is a suicide run, but- well- in the end of the world, maybe it doesn't matter.

"Let me talk to the only other adult here," Stan says, grabbing Rick's elbow and tugging him around the other side of the Stanleymobile. He makes eyecontact with Rick, raising his eyebrows. "Do your kids speak Spanish?"

"No, Beth didn't want to teach'em," Rick says, sighing before switching to Spanish, his voice low. "You're not suggesting we let them come with us."

"Rick, is it gonna matter tomorrow? Either they're cooped up in the Shack until the end or they're out here trying to do some good," Stan says softly, his own accent admittedly rusty as hell. "But- look, even if your portal gun-"

"About that," Rick says uncomfortably, and Stan shushes him.

"It's working, at least a little bit, right?" he asks, and Rick shrugs.

"Why?" he asks.

"If things get bad- if things start goin' pear-shaped- grab the four and portal back to the Shack," Stan says simply, and Rick sighs briefly, before nodding. Stan claps his shoulder once, and Rick shoots him a bitter almost-smile.

"Maybe we'll get to see your brother and my sister again," he suggests, before switching back to English. "Okay, kids, c-come on."

"We have graciously decided," Stan adds magnanimously, arms outspread as he steps around the car and shoots the kids a smile. "To allow you gremlins to assist us on the condition that nobody complains or whines or-"

"Yay!" Mabel squeals, barrelling into Stan's midsection. Stan pats her a few times, wheezing.

"Alright, sweetie, let's go... save the world," he sighs gruffly, and she giggles, muffled by his shirt.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's not a conversation he was supposed to hear. Susie Wentworth has avoided the cabin for the last four years, ever since one of Ford's bizarre machines did- well, _something_ to her eye- but for some reason, she's never been nasty to Stan about it.

It's one nice thing, at least. He's been tired, lately- physically, and emotionally, and that Slaater girl and her lumberjack boyfriend keep pestering him whenever she's not busy- but he's not so tired that he hasn't noticed that for the last couple of years, people have been coming to the Murder Hut with no intention of looking at the displays or listening to his spiel. They pay admission, same as everyone else, and they linger in the gift shop, sometimes buying a snack or a gewgaw here and there, but mostly the townsfolk seem to think the Hut is a good meetingplace to exchange gossip out of the public eye. He supposes it is- who else is here all the time but him? And nobody knows it, but he's too tired lately to remember that the same Mrs. So-and-So who was here last week is being discussed by Miss Whatsername. It makes sense, he figures, especially if they just want somewhere to gossip without the really nosy bastards knowing they were gossiping.

So he knows this is not a conversation he was supposed to hear. Gladys Jimenez had brought her five-year-old daughter to the Murder Hut and within five minutes Susie Wentworth was in his doorway, giving Stan a faint smile before paying the admission and making a beeline for the Jimenez ladies.

He wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping, and- as they start talking quietly next to the taxidermied Roller Bear (a common brown bear with rollerskates for paws- not one of his best efforts but he couldn't think of what to do with a pawless taxidermy of a bear)- he realizes that, among the many other things they don't and couldn't possibly know about him, they assume he doesn't speak or understand Spanish. Maybe Ford had never spoken Spanish with anyone here- Stan doesn't make a habit of it either, in no small part because Ma used to criticize his accent when he called- but enough Spanish-speaking tourists have come through that half the 'regulars' in town have heard him speak it. He glances over again- Susie, of course, hasn't been in the Hut in years, but he's pretty sure the Jimenezes have only been here once in the last couple of years, too.

"Are you sure he's dead and not-" Susie asks in Spanish, and Stan has to pretend he dropped the rag he's using to polish the counter.

"The police are sure. Wallet was abandoned with the car," Gladys says quietly, then shrugs. "They're used to not finding a body, the past few years."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Susie says, sighing. "Do you think he is, though?"

"I think that if he was alive when he left the car in the ditch, he wouldn't have survived the night in the woods," Gladys says wetly, wiping her eyes. "You know what they're like here. Don't Think, Don't Ask, Don't Investigate. They used to care if the ones in the forest overstepped and took people, they used to _do_ something about it-"

"They-" Susie trails off, looking around. "Don't talk about it, you don't know who's listening, Pines is here-"

"Some gringo sideshow magician? He's not listening, he doesn't understand a word we're saying," Gladys scoffs, and Stan would almost have cut in with a nasty remark letting them know _exactly_ how much he understands, but then she turns sharply, switching back to English. "Shandra! Stop touching that thing!"

"Hey!" Stan says loudly, because the kid's cute and all, but he's sure she's not supposed to be climbing on top of his Zaltran Fortuneteller Machine or- is she trying to break into the glass compartment?! "What are you doing, kid?"

"The old man wizard tells the future!" little Shandra says, eyes shining. "I'm just doing my duty as a citizen to release the truth to the public!"

"Alright, kiddo, down you get," Stan grumbles, reaching up and plucking the kid off the machine. She kicks a couple of times as he carries her at arm's length, depositing her next to her mom and- Auntie? He's not entirely sure what the relationship is there, to be honest. "You break it, you buy it, ladies."

"We'll keep an _eye_ on her, handsome," Susie says, and- wow, okay, she really doesn't mind what he did to her back in '82, _does_ she? Stan's not sure how he feels about her flirting- she's cute and all, but- he turns, his face burning.

"Alright, well, don't let her do it again," he says weakly.

He's not the Pines she's flirting with. Maybe, he tells himself, after- after Ford comes back, after this has been fixed- maybe she'll be open to the idea of- of what, Stanford's lying criminal twin?

He doesn't try to listen in on the rest of her conversation with Gladys, though- if they're talkin' about the missing Mr. Jimenez, they probably just need to make funeral arrangements, or something. Weird that he'd be declared dead without a body or anything, but- hey, small town cops, right?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They get close enough to see the big, green orb- crackling and blackened around the edges, like-

_scarred bare feet, a piece of the puzzle as Ripley admits: she liked to hurt me_

-like something that's been cooking in hot coals for too long. The big dumb sword is there, recognizable by everybody who's seen the big blue journal she carries around everywhere, but it's dizzyingly close to the ground- connected, Stan notices, by a broad tree trunk, with boards nailed in, like a ladder up to a treehouse. Rick freezes next to him, and at Stan's questioning look Rick gives him a terrible grimacing smile.

"Can't wait to feed that triangle his own asshole," Rick says tightly, adjusting his stained labcoat.

"Language," Stan says, and Rick snorts.

"You know she had a treehouse growing up?" he replies, and- okay, yeah, Stan can't wait to feed that triangle his own asshole, either.

"You want me to go up first?" Stan asks softly.

"Aren't you scared of heights, Pines?" Rick scoffs, and Stan gives Mabel a distracted pat on the head.

"Not anymore, thanks to this munchkin. What do you say, I head up first, then Summer- in case I need backup fast- then the twins, Morty, you," he suggests, and Rick hesitates, glancing over at the tree and the orb.

"Dunno what it might look like in there," Rick admits.

"Rick, I've been in her mindscape and seen everything there is to see," Stan sighs, scratching at his neck. "And yeah, it's been- pretty bad, to be honest, but the kids have seen some of it themselves, too, and- look, if it's as bad as all that, you know, you've got plan B," he says, and Rick shrugs. "I'm goin' up, then, right?"

"Right," Rick says, and- feeling intensely silly, for some reason, despite the weight of the kids' gazes on him- Stan climbs up the ladder and into the orb.

He's not sure what he expected, but- well, maybe the inside of a treehouse makes the most sense, after all. It's a little too short for Stan to stand up fully, but someone Rick's height would be stooped over. It's too high up to come in through the wide, mosquito-netted windows, and even though he just climbed up through it, the entryhole is clearly way, way too small for anybody bigger around than, say, Wendy to come in through. It's a solid, sturdy, well-built little playhouse- and kinda perfect, once he starts thinking about it, to keep anybody but a kid out.

Summer's just popping up into the space when Stan sees it- huddled in the deepest part of the shadows, something small, with big, round eyes and gleaming white teeth.

"Careful, kid-" Stan tells her, shifting so most of his bulk is between the shape and Summer. "You! What are you?"

"I'm Good," it chirps- sounding like a little kid, sounding like a bright little girl. The twins are quick to follow Summer, and Stan holds an arm out to keep them back.

"Don't come any closer," he warns, waggling Ripley's walking stick in her direction.

"Okay, I won't!" the- girl?- replies proudly. "Who are you? Do you want something? I can give you something!"

"Like what?" Dipper asks, suspicious and sharp as a tack, and the girl giggles, standing- it's still too dark to see, but she's clearly some little kid, anywhere from five to seven years old, and if this place was built to torture and imprison Ripley Stan's starting to have a real bad feeling about what this kid can do. There's something odd about the way she smiles, too many teeth showing- even when she's talking, he can see the gleam of her teeth in the darkness under her eyes. Morty and Summer- bless those two kids, honestly- are flanking the kids, ready to stop anything that jumps out at them from the sides. Rick climbs up, inhaling sharply as soon as he sees where he is- so, okay, that's good, Stan hopes, maybe Rick knows what to expect.

"Anything you want- everything you want! I'll do whatever you want, 'coz I'm Good!" she says proudly, but- there's something in the way she's moving, something in her desperate, hungry little voice that makes him afraid for the kids.

Rick flinches behind Stan, before pushing forward against his arm, almost knocking him to the side. "Bea? Bea, is that you?"

"I-I'm Good," she repeats, sounding a little unsure. "Do- do you want something? I can do anything you want," she repeats.

"Grandpa Rick, it's- it's going to be a fake," Summer says gently. "It's not real, we- we should go look for Aunt Ripley."

"No, I'm real! Don't leave me, please don't leave me again!" the girl pleads, and Rick is way too much like his sister to resist. He darts forward, ducking Stan's arm, arms out.

"Come on, I'm not gonna leave you," he says roughly, and the girl comes forward as soon as he tells her to- and behind them, the kids draw together, and a strangled little laugh- not a mocking one but a shocked laugh- escapes Mabel as the girl comes into the light. Her face is fine from the middle of her nose up- right where the scar falls under Ripley's glasses- but from that point down her flesh is bare, exposed muscle and cartilage. There are no lips to close her mouth or cover her teeth- she shouldn't be able to talk like that, not without sounding weird, but Stan figures, in a distant way, far from the horrified revulsion rolling in his guts, that she sounds normal because this isn't real, because this, like the mindscape, is some kind of terrible dream.

The girl lets Rick fold her against his chest, his bony arms tightening around her.

"What, uh- what happened to your face, kid?" Mabel asks nervously.

_it just felt like the right thing to do, i could believe that she was the only person who loved me_

"She wanted me to do it," the girl says proudly. "I'm Good. I'll do anything you want."

Stan exhales shakily, sure that if he breathes too deeply that he'll throw up. "Rick- it's not her," he says, and Rick glares at him over the top of a messy head of blonde hair. Already, he's pulling his portal gun out of his pocket- Stan thinks for a second he's about to give up and open a portal, but he just uses it to scan the little girl, and whatever the screen says makes Rick hug her even tighter, giving Stan a desperate look. Stan sighs. "You know we're in here with that triangle makin' the rules- that's not the kid you think it is."

"You don't _know_ ," Rick snaps. "Could just be- c-could be she got de-aged, could be we have to f-find something- her memories or-or-or something- to put her back together, grow her back up-"

He jerks his head towards the netted window. "We can climb down from that opening, start looking for clues."

"This doesn't seem right, R-Rick-" Morty starts to say, before there's a sharp bang outside, startling them.

 _ **"Where are you, you little brat?"**_ someone bellows outside, and the mutilated little girl whimpers, clinging to Rick's shirt.

"Shh," Rick says quietly, glaring intently out the window- beyond, Stan can see, is an older, two-storied house, unfamiliar except for maybe a glimpse or two from the inside of Ripley's mindscape. "I'm not going to let them get you again."

"Again?" Dipper asks, eyes wide. "Did- Grunkle Stan, is that little kid Aunt Ripley?"

"No," Stan says, just as Rick hisses, " _Yes_." Stan pinches the bridge of his nose before speaking again. "Your Aunt's an adult, kid, and her face hasn't been peeled like a banana, Dipper, she's fine-"

"But what if this is something _Bill_ did, what- what if he made her a kid and hurt her?" Dipper asks, breaking Stan's heart a little. "Grunkle Stan, Rick's right, we can't just leave her-"

"Aunt Ripley, do you remember me? It's Mabel," Mabel says, clutching the collar of her sweater. "May-bel. Mabel. Do you know me?"

Stan can see it- he's gotten too used to doing it _himself_ to miss when the girl decides to lie, to tell the kids whatever it is they want to hear to make them happy.

"Y-yeah," she says, pointing at Mabel. "Mabel!" She points at Dipper. "And- Dipper!"

She hesitates, pointing at Morty and Summer- well, of course, Stan sighs, nobody's said their names yet- before pointing shakily at Stan, eyes wide and pleading. "Stan?"

Doing this- because she thinks that's what he wants, what the kids want- is too much like what the real Ripley (has to be another, realer Ripley here, this can't be it, this horrifying child can't be all that's left) would do. Stan can feel his resolve slipping.

"Fine, just- don't come cryin' to me when this explodes in yer face," Stan says gruffly, looking away. Rick and the twins are already hooked- Morty and Summer, at least, look vaguely uncomfortable with how this is going. Maybe he can trust them to grab the kids and the portal gun when this goes sour.

"Hey," Rick says gently- impossibly gentle, nothing like the man Stan used to know, but his kids don't look the least bit surprised. "Can you find your way around this place?"

"I think so," the kid says, frowning down at the floor- _how?!_ Stan's mind screams, _she doesn't have a mouth how is she doing this?!_ \- before giving Rick a worried look. "I don't want to get caught bein' bad by She. She gets so mad when I'm bad."

"I'll be with you this time," Rick says quietly, stroking her hair away from her tattered face. "J-Just- do you think you could show us how to get to the other ones who are here, like you?"

The girl nods slowly, giving Rick a searching look. "That's- that's what you want?"

"Yeah, sweetie, that's what I want," he tells her. Stan and Dipper edge over to the window- maybe the kid's starting to feel as uneasy as Stan is, he doesn't know- and Dipper grabs onto his arm. The thing- the person- who'd been yelling is stalking back and forth in front of the back door to the house, and mostly it looks like a tall, middle-aged blonde woman. The rest of it- shifting and oozing, normal human features one moment, unmistakenly inhuman the next- looks like a muddled green-brown-black mass of eyes and teeth, like-

_flinching away from him in the kitchen, a broken coffee mug clutched helplessly in her hand_

-something out of a nightmare. Stan puts a hand on Dipper's back, as much to make sure the kid's okay as it is to steady the boy.

"Grunkle Stan, that- that's not Aunt Ripley, is it?" he asks, horrified. Stan can see the resemblance, but Rick comes over and goes still, eyes round.

"No," he says simply, and squeezes the girl in his arms even closer. "That's our- that's someone else. It's not her."

"How d'you know, Rick?" Stan asks quietly, and Rick presses his mouth into the top of the child's head.

"I'd know that face anywhere, Pines," he says, and- okay. There's a lot to talk about later- and Stan must be a damn fool, because he still thinks and hopes that there's going to be a later, some time in peace and safety where they can talk about all this, about what happened. The girl steals a peek, eyes wide. "Do you know how to get past that, kiddo?"

"She only stops if She's mad at someone else," the girl explains with a sniffle. Rick doesn't look particularly surprised by this. Stan open his mouth, ready to volunteer to kick that monster-lady's ass, when there is a loud, ringing noise outside and the sound of the monster howling. A barefoot blonde girl in black is on the ground outside- she's not carrying her lightsword, but she's holding a gun that looks a hell of a lot like the one Ford held against her head when he first came home.

" **YOU** ," the monster lady snarls, loud enough to shake the treehouse, and the girl- not an adult, Stan can see, not his friend, not Ripley as she is now, but some rangy-looking teenager- laughs and shoots her again.

"Yeah, fuck you too," she says brightly, advancing as the gun empties into the mostly-human monster, even after it becomes motionless and mostly-blood. She fires a single final round of burning blue-white light into what might have been a head, teeth bared in a savage grin.

"Holy shit," Rick says quietly.

"Language," Stan hisses, before making an executive decision and punching the netting out of the treehouse window. It's a bit of a rough landing, but after he clumsily lowers himself to the ground the girl doesn't look, necessarily, surprised- disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. Her hair is clumsily cut, like someone'd cut it who didn't want it to look all that great, and three of her fingers are taped up in homemade splints. She looks Wendy's age- maybe even a little younger, although there's a hollowness in her face and under her eyes that Stan doesn't like the look of. "Hey, kid."

"Hey," she says warily, circling around the corpse of the monster on the ground. "Who are you? Where's the Good One?"

"The Good- oh," Stan says heavily, running a hand over the back of his neck. "She- uh- she's upstairs- with the other kids, uh, and your brother?"

"Oh, him," the girl says darkly, before blinking. "Wait, did- there are other kids here?"

"Aunt Ripley!" Mabel squawks, leaning out the window- startled, Stan moves over to catch her, and gets knocked on his ass for his trouble. Mabel gives his forehead an absentminded smooch before running for the teenager. "Aunt Ripley, you're so cool! Are you the cool half and she's the little half?"

"The what?" the girl asks, her expression souring. "There's more than just the two of us in here with that thing- and no, I'm not the cool one, I'm the Shitty One. Who are you? What are you doing here, little girl? Did- did _you_ bring her here?" the girl asks suspiciously, squinting at Stan. "This seem like a _good_ idea to you, old-timer?"

"Watch your language, you punk," Stan says, suddenly exhausted- suddenly? When's the last time he slept, his old bones would like to know?

"Make me," she says, glancing nervously at the puddle of gore and viscera that might have been her mother once. "Hey, if you're gonna be standin' around talking, fine, whatever, but She gets back up after a few minutes and usually I have more of a head start than this, so-"

"Hot Belgian _Waffles_ ," Stan swears, reaching up to lower Dipper down from the treehouse before the Sanchez kids leap nimbly down. "Come on, guys, we gotta go-"

"There's more of them! Fuck's sake, I thought I was coming for one snot-nosed little brat, not five," the punkass complains, holstering her weapon. "Well, let's go, you little shits, we don't have all day, She's coming back."

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," Summer says archly, and the girl snorts.

"Congratu-fuckin-lations, then," she says, before going completely still- Rick, still clinging to the little girl, climbs down, and the girl takes a step back, hand hovering near her just-holstered weapon. "Got any more in that clowncar?"

"You helped!" the Good Girl chirrups, beaming horribly at her. "Good job, Nasty!"

"I think you fuckin' know how to say _Shitty_ , Good One, you're not really six and you know you had this mouth at that age," the teenaged version grumbles, giving Rick the evil eye. Good Girl shakes her head, shocked.

"No, Nasty, it's bad to say bad words," she says seriously, and Nasty- kind of a fitting moniker, Stan sighs- rolls her eyes. "Look! I found family! That's good, right?"

"Since when is family any good?" she replies, motioning for the group to follow her around the side of the house, towards the street. "Come on- y'all came in here, I don't know why, but you gotta get those little kids out, it ain't safe. One of us knows how to get you out, though, so that'll be fine-"

"Aunt Ripley- we're bringing you back home with us," Morty says hopefully, jogging a little to catch up to her. She gives him a frown, wrinkling her nose. "I mean- all of you, so you can be put back together into one person again."

"What? No," she says, taken slightly aback. "Kid- you know why we're here, right? This is Hell. We're _supposed_ to be here."

"I-I don't-" Morty starts, and there's an inhuman, gurgling howl from behind them.

"Move, _fast_ ," she snaps, picking Mabel up around the waist and hauling ass towards a glitchy, incomplete-looking house down the street. Dipper doesn't let Stan grab him- good, to be honest, Stan doesn't think he could carry the kid- and the closer they get to the house the worse the glitching and visual stuttering gets. For a second the front becomes Stan's childhood home, Ma's neon sign blinking over **Pines Pawn** \- then the signs change, Ma's sign disappears and the storefront says _Kieferson's Holy Books_ , before he blinks and it's back to the moldering antebellum two-story. Nasty gets the door open and ushers them in, locking it behind Rick before shoving her way through the group towards the stairs.

"Don't touch nothin'," she warns, stomping up the stairs. What Stan can see of the living room is a discordant mess- half Mystery Shack, half crazy cat lady. He knows that half of this- half of whatever she thinks of as her safe space- is the home he gave her, and he's weirdly grateful, but it makes him wonder even more about the other half. Nasty knocks on a bedroom door, before shouldering her way in.

"Hey, Sexy. I found the Good One," she says, before adding hesitantly, "and- some people who you know, I guess?"

"Send them in, Nasty- and you know I don't like being called that," the Ripley in the bedroom says calmly. She looks good- she looks _healthy_ , Stan thinks after a dizzying moment. It's not just that she doesn't seem to have any of the scars Ripley's accumulated over the years, or that- in contrast to either of the younger ones- she looks clean and well-fed. She just looks... better, stronger, like she's lit up from inside a little. He can kinda see why Nasty- being a Ripley, or a part of her- would think that she's the sexy one. She stands, and she looks like she might be a little bit taller than Ripley really is, as if- as if maybe she's the one Ripley would have wanted to be. Something in Stan's tired, overworked heart squeezes a little.

"Aunt Ripley? Are- is that you, too?" Mabel asks, frowning. She's looking between the three of them like she's not sure she likes what she sees.

"Unfortunately, yes, Mabel, sweetie. I'm the Apex Ripley, technically speaking." She smiles serenely, her gaze lingering on Rick and Stan and the kids a little before she motions towards Good Girl. "I see you all helped in the retrieval of the Obedient One- thank you, very much. I'll be able to make the little one comfortable here now. And I suppose you all need a way out back to the real world, don't you?"

"What? No! We're bringing you home, Aunt Ripley- all of you, um, together," Dipper stammers, and Apex sighs a little, giving Dipper's cheek a pat.

"Oh, darling, no. We can't go back," she says, and, loud enough to be heard over the sudden protests, "and we _can't_ reincorporate."

"But-" Morty starts, and she gives him a beatific smile, startling him into lowering his voice. "But we came here to bring you back to help us stop the apocalypse. You have- you have to come back with us."

"A-and what do you mean, you can't reincorporate, h-how do you _know_?" Rick says stubbornly, even though he's still clutching the Good Girl too tightly to allow her to join the other Ripley. "H-have you tried, have you done a-any experiments?"

"Rick, the truth of the matter is, we can't reincorporate because it's simply too dangerous- ask Stan," she says, making Stan extremely uncomfortable as she fixes her gaze on his face. "Stan knows- Stan saw- the monster we were turning into. That monster started the apocalypse, Rick, how do you think any of this happened? If we reincorporated, that monster would come back, and would most likely cause the deaths of everyone we care about. It's simply for the best."

"No," Mabel says shakily, clinging to Stan's shirt. "Aunt Ripley w-wouldn't start the apocalypse, that- that's not right, she loves us-"

"Oh, sweetheart, of course we did," Apex says gently. "The monster was always going to win. But if it makes you feel better, the parts of us that _weren't_ that evil monster have been separated out from the bad parts, and those of us who are capable of experiencing love? We love you very much, Mabel. All of you- we didn't think we'd get the chance to see you kids again, or either of you," she adds, nodding towards Rick and Stan.

"But- well, couldn't all of you come back, then, and just, you know, all of you help us?" Dipper asks, and Apex laughs softly, shaking her head.

"Oh, darling, no. Even if we could leave here- and I'm sure you've realized that one or two of us has tried, by now- we shouldn't. However, it seems very likely that even if we did, even if we could, the limitations of normal reality wouldn't be able to contain all of us. Reality simply can't support so many of us existing like this, and most likely we would all just wink out of existence entirely."

"Not like that'd be the worst way to go," Nasty opines, and Apex shoots her a vaguely irritated look.

"Don't you have somewhere _else_ to be, Nasty?" she asks, and the teenager folds in a little, glaring back at Apex.

"Fuck off, Sexy, I'm not leavin' til I get paid," she snaps, bristling.

"Don't fight, that's not nice," the Good Girl protests, looking unhappy and tugging on Rick's shirt collar. "They shouldn't fight, it's not nice."

"Be quiet, little one," Apex says, and the Good Girl clamps her mouth shut and puts her thumb in, eyes wide. "Despite the fact that you didn't even do what you were supposed to do and fetch the Obedient One yourself, _Nasty_ , I am a Ripley of my word. Your payment is on the table downstairs; you may see yourself out."

"Wait- you're leaving? You can't leave-" Dipper says, looking over at Stan. "Grunkle Stan, no-"

"Uh-" Stan feels terribly cornered- something about this is too, too familiar, and his mouth feels like it's full of cotton. "Come on, we can't split up again, right?"

"It's of no consequence," Apex says, and Nasty backs into the door.

"Yeah, sure, see you chucklefucks later," she says, and Apex sighs.

"I must apologize for this one's language in front of the children. She actually might _not_ know any better, most of the undesirables lack even a basic understanding of decency," she says calmly. "Now, as to your plight- I'm deeply sorry for starting the apocalypse, we all are. The fact simply remains that we cannot leave this place without reincorporating, and if we do, the transformation into the monstrous creature will be inevitable, and however bad things may seem now, she will make it infinitely worse."

"You don't know that, Aunt Ripley, we- we need you," Summer says, and the Good Girl in Rick's arms squeals gleefully. "We need your help to rescue Ford and Mr. McGucket and, uh, help kill Bob or whatever his name is. Couldn't- couldn't just some of you come, then? Couldn't the parts of you that don't have the bad stuff come out and help?"

"Well, pumpkin, I'm not entirely sure there's enough here to make a whole person," Apex says slowly, stroking her chin. "Just myself and the Obedient One wouldn't really be enough to make something stable- if we had at least one other Ripley who was suitable for the task at hand, maybe, at least temporarily- unfortunately, a lot of the weaker undesirables have been at least partially or fully consumed by She, and I'm not sure if any of the good ones are left."

"Scum is still around, if you're lookin' for others-" Nasty says- apparently, still lingering in the doorway.

"Do you _ever_ think before you speak?" Apex snaps, and Nasty scowls. "Scum is called that for a _reason_ ; we're looking for someone who won't endanger innocent people. Do you have any other unhelpful additions, or are you done wasting everyone's time?"

"You want somebody who remembers how to swordfight, you want Scum," Nasty mutters. The kids are looking uncomfortable- Morty and Summer mostly look used to this kind of back and forth, but Dipper and Mabel kind of look battered by the heaviness of what the two Ripleys are saying. Stan meets Rick's gaze, but Rick doesn't look like he knows what to do about this, either.

"I'll take it under consideration if we have any desire to contaminate our attempt with an undesirable. In the meantime, there's nothing stopping you from going back to whatever you were doing before I tried to make you _somewhat_ useful," Apex snaps, and Nasty- wearing an expression Stan's seen a dozen times on her, like a window with the curtains drawn- stomps out of the room without another glance.

_i can make it on my own, i don't need you, i don't need anyone_

"The way out of here is simple," Apex says slowly, as if nothing happened. "There is a physical edge to this realm, and in that edge there is a particular thin place- and any sufficient force will be enough to eject yourselves out of it. As long as you don't run into She, you'll be fine-" There's a thud downstairs- Stan thinks, out of nowhere, of the sound of a body hitting the sidewalk, of a lightly packed duffel bag hitting his stomach.

"I need a minute, I, uh... I need some air-" he manages to say, hurrying out before he can do something embarrassing.

He stops halfway down the stairs, foot hovering mid-step. The ragged teenager is picking through a Winn Dixie grocery bag, her three splinted fingers sticking out awkwardly as she shoves stuff into her mouth- little brown bricks of crumbling brown jelly, some half-wrapped Summerween candy, a crushed packet of graham crackers that she almost drops in her hurry to get it open. He lowers his foot carefully; she doesn't notice, shoving a handful of cracker crumbs into her mouth and licking her dirty palm to get anything she missed.

"Hey," Stan says roughly, and she stops, hugging the bag to her chest, eyeing him warily. "Do, uh- do you remember me, at all?"

"Uh..." Nasty looks him over, frowning. "There's- another one who looks just like you, but he's not you."

"That's right," Stan says, moving down another couple of steps. "Ford. You remember Ford, huh?"

"I guess so," she shrugs, looking down. "Don't really remember a lot about any of you. The good ones got that, mostly. I-" She pauses, fixing a bright, suspicious look on him. "What do you want? Not gonna fuck you if you don't have any food on you, so don't ask."

"Cryin' out loud, no, don't even suggest that again," Stan wheezes, vaguely ill from the very thought. "That- number one you're like fourteen, that's disgusting, number two, you're my friend, you're- I think legally my sister or something?"

"Huh. Well, what _do_ you want, then?"

"I don't want _anything_ ," he tells her, and no, that's not exactly true, but he doesn't even know if he believes this idea that Ripley's a bunch of people now, or what. He doesn't know if he wants to believe that this wary, violent, unhappy child is always there inside the woman he knows and loves.

She sneers at him, wiping her face on her sleeve. "Nobody wants nothin', old man. I don't have to remember you to know what people are like."

"You gotta remember me if you're part of Ripley," Stan insists, swallowing tightly. "I'm Stan. You an' me, we're family, on account of you're married to Ford, right? That means-"

"Kinda fucked up, I'm married to an old guy," she points out, and Stan shakes his head. "Sugar daddy thing?"

"It ain't like that, you're not this young, you're not a kid. You're a grown ass adult. And it's not- you two love each other, it's not weird," he tries to explain, and she frowns. "He loves you."

"You mean he loves Sexy," she corrects, idly picking a couple of gummy bears- looks like something Mabel has at home- out and shoving them in her mouth. She gives Stan a speculative look.

"N-no, he loves the whole thing," Stan says, clearing his throat. "He's- like you, right? There's no- sexy stuff. S'probably part of why you two get along so good."

"I don't- I don't mean like literally sexy, man," she mumbles, digging around until she finds some kind of squashed, unfamiliar fruit and taking a messy bite. Blue-purple juice runs down her chin as she continues, mouth mostly full. "Like- that one, Apex, whatever." She swallows, licking juice off her wrist. "That's the One People Love. That's the real one. That's the one everybody woulda had if it wasn't for me making all those stupid shitty decisions."

"I don't think it works like that, kiddo," he says gently. He reaches a hand out for her shoulder-

_high six? don't leave me hangin'_

-but she freezes, like a stray cornered in an alley, knuckles turning white as she clutches the bag closer, like she's afraid he'd take it from her. He lowers his hand.

"That's how it works," she says, eyes darting from his face to his hands and back again. "The Good One's the only bitch dumb enough to do what she's told, but she's little and she does what she's supposed to do, so she's alright. Sexy got all the brains, since she's the one people want- I'm guessin' this Ford guy wanted somebody smart, right? Smart and beautiful and good. Well, if it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have left us-"

"Aw, no, Ripley, it wasn't like that-" Stan starts, and she shakes her head again, back pressed against the door. "Come on, he didn't leave you, it was- it was some kind of accident-"

"No," she says, her voice trembling. "I remember that. _They_ don't have to remember because they're good, they get to be wanted. Scum is the worst, Scum is a fuckin' murderer, but at least she's pretty useful sometimes. Not me. I'm shitty and nasty and fuckin' stupid, that's why he left us, that's why they all did. I'm the one they leave. Ford and John and Devaaki and-" She trails off, looking down. "I _know_ there was another one. If I was good he wouldn'ta left me. The good ones get to remember him, but, uh... I mean... if I was good he'd still be in here," she says, tapping her head. "Any- anyway, i-it doesn't matter. You guys are all- real fucken smart, I guess, you'll figure it out, how to give Sexy and the Good One back to Ford or whatever, maybe even put em together so it's just one wifey instead of an alpha bitch and an ugly kid. You just leave the bad ones here and like- and you'll fix it and it'll all be better. S'fine."

"Sweetie, no," Stan breathes out, putting his hands on her shoulders without thinking. "Listen- number one, Ripley, this isn't how it works, awright? You didn't deserve gettin' left behind, any of those times, but you found your way to us, all of us, coz of it, and I'm pretty damn glad you did. We- ugh, we love you, alright? All of us. An' I love you. And it's not just some pretend version of you that you got in here that you think mighta happened if your life was easier, because if none of the bad stuff happened, none of the good stuff would've happened either. The real Ripley didn't peel her own face off, you think any of us is upset that a disobedient little punkass inside'a you stopped you from doin' that to yourself?"

Big, fat tears well up in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks as she screws her features up in a tremendous scowl. "Shut the f-fuck up."

"Come on," he tells her softly. "Havin' you inside made the whole Ripley a survivor. The others don't know, but you an' me do, right? Stealin' food because you can't get it any other way, eatin' garbage if you can't get away with stealing- you think that made us bad people, Ripley? Sleepin' with a knife because you don't know if somebody'll come after you in your sleep and fightin' dirty because you know there's nobody to patch you up but yourself when you make it out alive, that's not nasty, Ripley. That's you makin' sure there's a tomorrow, an' man, I've _been_ there. Does that make us bad people?"

"I don't know," she says, breathing hard. "I don't know. Th-there had to be a reason. Gotta be some reason I deserved it. Good One didn't deserve it, Sexy didn't deserve it, Scum didn't exist yet, so-"

"You didn't deserve bad shit happening to you, kiddo, it's not right and you don't gotta feel like it made sense. You-" Stan barks a soft, hurt laugh. "Take it from me, kid. Life chews you up and spits you out sometimes, doesn't matter who you are or what you did or your intentions or any of it. Sometimes life just does that. It don't make you a bad person." He carefully shuffles closer, until he can put his arms around her. "Sweetie, there's nothin' you did that made all that stuff happen."

"But there's gotta be," she all but whimpers, her body stiff against him, like she doesn't know what a hug is. She might not, he supposes. "Gotta be some reason. I'm- I'm the thing that made it so nobody ever wanted us. I did that. I made our family like that, I made everybody go away, it's because nobody wants to be around some stupid rotten piece of shit-"

"Oh yeah? Try me, punk," Stan mutters, and she huffs a small, surprised laugh. "Come on, I'm serious. You think I like bein' around you only when you're all prim and proper and quiet? No way. You have all these good stories about the dumb shit Ford does, you're good with the kids, you care about us, and you know, yeah, sometimes you're pretty rowdy and messy and weird, but we're all kinda weird and rowdy in this family, what's one more mess?"

She sniffles, wiping snot on her sleeve as she looks away, head down. "You, uh... so... I mean, even though you're gonna have a really good one, one who's- who's smart and pretty and good and isn't a fuckin' bitch that can't do anything right-" She swallows nervously. "Maybe... you might wanna, I dunno... visit a giant fuckup in here sometimes?"

"If that's how this plays out- if only part of you gets to come home, and part of you has to stay- then yeah, Ripley. You're not gettin' left behind again," he says, and she doesn't smile, doesn't look like she's capable of believing him, so he just has to prove her wrong, then, doesn't he?

She rubs the heel of her palm against her eyes, looking overwhelmed. "I didn't mean to start the apocalypse. It was an accident."

"Hey, accidents happen, sweetie. Believe me, I know," he tells her, and she sniffles at him again. "The thing is, hon... you know, maybe sometimes even if it was an accident, you gotta try to fix it anyway, even if you're not sure you can."

"...you guys need to get enough Ripleys around to make a big Ripley and fight Bill," she says quietly, and for a second Stan foolishly thinks that she's starting to come around to the idea that it's her they need and want. She straightens her shoulders out. "I can bring you. I can bring you to Scum Ripley. She's the one strong enough to help. We just gotta stay out of She's way."

"Yeah," Stan sighs, rubbing his jaw. "Alright. Look. About that-"

"What are you doing down here?" Morty asks quietly from the top of the stairs- the girl flinches, which the kid doesn't seem to notice. Stan breathes out, waving a hand at him. He takes a few steps closer, propping the unicorn-wrapped baseball bat on one shoulder.

"Look, buddy- you and your sister and the kids stay with Rick, right? I got something I gotta see." It's so painfully obvious, with them at the same age, same size- does Rick see this every time he looks at the two of them, Stan wonders?

"I'm takin' him to see Scum," Nasty Ripley says, squaring her shoulders. "S'not somethin' for kids to see."

"I should come, too," Morty says, and Stan glances over at her. He doesn't think it's a bad idea, necessarily- he doesn't think anything in here would willingly hurt Morty, even though she certainly seems apprehensive about it, certainly thought that she had to protect them from the other occupants in her personal hell- but he's not really sure if Morty's old enough to learn this kind of lesson about the adults in his life.

Then again, maybe he is, if she was this age or younger when she had to learn some other, harder lessons. Stan sighs.

"I think that's fine, Ripley," he says cautiously, and she chews on her thumbnail, looking concerned. "I think between you an' me and Morty's sparklestick, we'd be safe."

"Don't blame me when this all gets fucked to hell," she mutters, wrapping the contents of her grocery bag- what there is left of it- into an oblong ovoid shape and shoving it into a pocket. "Does Sexy know you're leavin'?"

"Aunt Ripley, n-none of you are the boss of me," Morty says thinly, and she huffs a laugh, brightening up a little.

"Okay, then." She opens the door- silently, carefully, like someone who's used to sneaking out, like Stan himself must have done a thousand times before leaving home, a million times since he started working on Ford's portal- and looks nervously outside. Some of the houses in the neighborhood have been replaced with impossibly tall trees and small, sandstone huts, and one of them was replaced by a big stone temple-looking thing that Stan thinks he remembers seeing in one of the Very Bad Memories.

"Are we gonna have to go to that big ominous temple, by any chance?" Stan asks, and she blinks at him in surprise before nodding. "Well, that sounds about right. At least it's close, should only take a minute."

"You're not scared?" Morty asks under his breath, as the girl starts leading them down the front steps towards the temple.

"I think I know what we're gonna see in there, kid," he whispers back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's just the two of them, drinking coffee after midnight because they have work to do- so much work, and he doesn't know if it's ever gonna end but at least now, with her here, he's not going at it alone. She catches him looking and grins, waggling her fingers.

"Whatcha lookin' at, Handsome?"

"Some crazy broad who broke into my house," he says, and she snorts. "What're you lookin' at?"

"Some old fart who's gonna get an asskicking," she suggests, and he gives her arm a light shove. "Ow, quit it, turdblaster."

"Make me," he says, and she looks at him with such impossible fondness. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Come on, we should head downstairs," he says. Ford's still out there, waiting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There are lot of long, empty stone tables- Stan thinks, from the story he's heard, this is the place where Thirty Five Nuns And A Chaos God happened, and if that's the case, he's surprised at how nice it looks- possibly, he's willing to concede, the badness came from the people and the things Ripley had to do to them. It's a little cooler and breezier than he thought it would be, and there's a ton of marble everywhere, and Nasty's bare feet pad silently through the place. He could almost think it's pretty here, until he glances down and notices that she's leaving bloody footprints everywhere in here, even though she hadn't outside.

"You okay, Ripley?" he asks, and she startles, giving him a confused look. He gestures at her feet. "You hurt?"

"Oh- no. I'm just- I think I did this to myself," she says, scratching the back of her neck. "I'm not sure. It all kinda runs together."

"Fair enough," Stan mutters. Morty looks down at the ground, his hands tightening around the bat- Stan sort of wishes he knew the kid better, or had a better handle on what he's thinking. He doesn't want either of the twins to have to see what might be in here, and he thinks it would hurt them- they both have too much of that empathy crap, they would both go too far down that hole worrying about the past, worrying about things that can't be fixed or prevented because they already happened. He thinks Morty has similar things going on in that noggin, maybe, but there's a big difference between almost-thirteen and almost-fifteen, and there's an even bigger difference between the twins' home life and the Sanchezes'. He thinks Morty- maybe wouldn't be okay, but he thinks Morty would get it.

The room is circular, and lined with mirrors that have been burnt through and scored with thick lines- he thinks he recognizes the handiwork of Ripley's lightsword, actually. There are benches all around, and a round, flat pit in the middle, full of a dark black dust. He thinks it might be coal dust. He thinks it used to be a pit full of burning embers, and he thinks this is one of the places where that chaos god hurt her.

There isn't anything especially notable or different about the Ripley standing in the middle of the pit. Her shoes are missing and her left sock appears to be gone, but that could have happened to anybody. She's still wearing kneelength jogging pants and her Mabel Sweater, the way she was the last time Stan saw her in person. Her sword's with her- Stan guesses this one really did get everything to do with swordsmanship- dangling from one hand.

Nasty clears her throat. "H-hey, uh, S-scummy Ripley, I, uh-"

A fist tightens around the handle of the sword and the blade ignites, but there's no other sound from the woman in the center of the room. Nasty flinches badly, and Stan puts a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"Sweetheart, you're not gonna use that thing, are ya?" he asks, and Ripley turns slowly to look at him, dead silent. There's a little dirt on her, and tracks on her face from sweat and tears, but that's the face he's been lookin' at all summer, sure enough, and at her neck is the flash of blue that all the other Ripleys haven't had. Stan tries a smile, which she doesn't return. She just stares blankly at him, then at Morty, before hardening her gaze in the other Ripley's direction.

"Aunt Ripley?" Morty asks timidly. "We, uh- we came here to bring you home, r-right?"

"We're the rescue party," Stan adds, waving his hands. "Ta-daaaaa!"

She doesn't react beyond the hard stare she levels in his direction. Stan decides to try a different tactic.

"And we need you," he says, and she blinks. "We need you back home, Ripley. You know how Ford is. Him and Fidds got into some kinda mess, you know? And we need you to come home and help us."

Cracks form in the stone. She blinks again, eyes downcast.

"Rick's here, too. And Dipper and Mabel, and Summer. We- we a-all came looking for you," Morty adds, bless him. She sighs, deactivating the sword. Next to Stan, Nasty relaxes, just a tiny bit.

"You remember us, don't you?" Stan asks. "I'm Stanley, this is Morty, th-"

"I remember everyone," Ripley whispers. "The ones who got hurt because of me. The ones who died because of me. The people I was supposed to protect." Each shard of mirror shows a different face- Stan sees himself, and Fidds, and the kids, and Ford; he sees a kind-looking vaguely military black guy and something like a furry red squid and a little pink iguana and a girl with big, brown eyes. He sees Ranger McGucket and Tyler Cutebiker and Wendy and Soos and Abuelita.

Stan sighs, even as Nasty ducks her head in shared shame.

"Oh, I get it. And that's the- the reason, right. You call yourself Scum Ripley because you just... that's who you think you are," he says, and Nasty shifts uncomfortably next to him, and Ripley's mouth tightens into a frown. "I guess you're gonna tell me that it's your fault whatever the triangle does, then? Because I mean, I guess so, right? You'd rather stick around in here hatin' yourself than comin' out and doin' something about him?"

"Stan, that's not- I'm a _monster_ ," she mutters flatly, and he scoffs. "You have no idea the danger you're in-"

"You're a _buttnugget_ is what you are," he says, and Nasty and Morty both snort in surprised horror. It's not his best work, no, but they're fourteen years old, some things are universal. "You think I ain't figured you out, Ripley? You're family. That means havin' somebody notice this stuff, babe."

"Stop acting like I didn't kill everybody!" she snaps. "Stop acting like I didn't kill Fidds!"

"Well, you didn't do _either_ of those two things, Queen Doofus," he says, leaning on her fancy walking stick. "And yeah, things are lookin' pretty dire right now, sure would be a lot easier to plan for fixin' all this if a certain somebody would just knuckle down and, I dunno, mash it up with the rest of herself."

"Stan, I can't. It'll turn me back into that thing, it'll turn me back into that fucking nightmare," she says, then, glancing uneasily at Morty, "F-fudging? Are- are we doing that now?"

"I think you're overthinkin' it, like you do, because everybody in this family apparently has a garbage brain," Stan points out. "You know what you need? You just need to learn how to relax and learn to love the bomb-"

"Stan, I _am_ the bomb!" she yells, then clamps her mouth shut. "Wait-"

"You heard it here, first, folks, she says she's the bomb, we fixed this entire self esteem thing," Stan says brightly.

"Shut up, Stan, I didn't- I didn't mean it like that-" she tries to say, flustered, looking worried when the kids snicker helplessly at her. "I meant- I meant I'm the most dangerous thing here, Stan, come on, don't- stop that."

"Oh, I don't disagree with that, sweetcheeks-"

"Don't call me that!"

"-I don't disagree with that, sugarbutt, you're definitely the most dangerous person any of us knows, but you got this real dumb way of thinkin' that you're, say, more of a danger, personally, _to us_ , than a literal demon that literally started the apocalypse or whatever," Stan points out, and she glowers at him. "Instead of maybe thinkin' about how you're the most dangerous person to that fella, too."

"I'm- Stan, I-" Ripley's face crumples a little, and he's there faster than he would have thought possible, kicking up the black dust.

"Hey, it's been a really fuckin' shitty weekend, hasn't it," he says softly, and she gives him a miserable look, one he just saw on her younger self's face.

"I hurt Fidds. I know I did."

"I don't know about that," he says carefully, because he doesn't, "but Fidds was with his son a little bit ago, Jessie and Rick both saw them standin' up to this Bill creep. And a lot of the townsfolk may technically be statues at this moment, but I've been told by a real earnest kid in a labcoat that this is a temporary ailment. And right now a big chunk of your family is in here, lookin' for you, because no matter what else happens or how this all plays out, we want you with us. Good stuff, bad stuff. Maybe the stuff you didn't want to admit was there. Maybe the stuff you were scared of. I don't know if this, uh- if this is something you're gonna want to deal with later, but, you know, it can't possibly be healthy, what you're doin' here."

She hunches her shoulders, looking down. "After... after we try to, I guess, save the world or whatever, then. Assuming I don't kill and eat all of you."

"Right."

"Assuming I don't fuck the whole thing up like I always do," Nasty mutters, and Stan turns and points at her.

"Right!"

"Then what?" she asks softly. "I still ruined the rest of summer with the kids and- and probably your entire family and your entire life-"

"I'm almost entirely certain that's bullshit on all counts, sweetie," Stan tells her. "You brought me my brother back. You took care of the kids. You brought _you_ into my life. I mean, at the very least, it's a wash, right?"

She snorts, and he gives her arm a pat. She looks up at him. "Stan, I, uh... I don't think I can do it. Only one thing in here wants to be around anybody else, and, uh... it's bad, though. It's the thing that's turning me into Tasha. That's the only thing that- that I think even has the ability to take in other, uh- other people-"

"Yeah, I know, we gotta talk to this She person," he says, and both of the Ripleys look up in horror. "Oh, don't give me that look, I told you from the start you've been figured out. It's not gonna be attractive or anything but you're just gonna have to suck it up."

"You saw it?" Ripley asks, vaguely outraged. "But-"

"It couldn't hurt anybody, I shot it up," Nasty volunteers anxiously. "Like- like, a lot. So it couldn't hurt anybody."

"We're gonna need to get back together with uh... Apex and the little kid, too," Stan says quietly, giving Ripley a speculative look. "You know, you told me somethin' about my mindscape once- I know this ain't the same, but do you think, you know-?"

"Well..." Ripley says hesitantly. She holds a hand out to one of the mirror panels, and there's a shuddering of reality around them that shakes dust loose from the ceiling. The image in the mirror is the bedroom where Rick and the kids and Apex and Obedient were left, and then, all of a sudden, it's not just an image anymore.

Dipper steps through, looking slightly shellshocked. "Aunt- Aunt Ripley, could you always do that?" he asks shakily.

"Another Aunt Ripley! Are we gonna get to keep all of you?" Mabel squeaks, bouncing out and into Ripley's side. Apex gives the Ripleys in the room a disgusted and disappointed glare, a hand on Obedient's head.

"You," she says, frowning. "I see Nasty had one of her bright ideas."

"Stan thinks we should, uh- should talk to She," Nasty says, when the Ripley in the middle goes taut and silent. "He- um- thinks you and, uh... this one, you know, should- get, uh-"

"No," Apex says. "I'm not turning back into that thing."

"Kiddo, what do you think? You think you could be brave for us, and help us rescue our family and everything?" Stan asks the Obedient One, and the little girl perks up, eyes wide.

"I can help! I can do anything you want!" she says, and Apex yanks her back by the shoulder.

"Shut _up_ ," she snaps, and the girl covers her mouth with her hands, looking apologetic. "You're not going with them, you're not going to help make that thing stronger-"

"Ripley, this has to stop," Rick says, and Apex shuts her mouth, giving him a look that makes Stan wonder if there is a part of her that knows or suspects. "Y-you want to stay alone in this hellhole, fine, but you can't force the rest of you stay."

"I can't make anybody stay," Apex says quietly, "but you'd know more about that than I would, right, Rick?"

"This isn't the time or the place," Summer cuts in, and Rick and Apex make the same ridiculous face, and Stan has to fight the urge to laugh. He's so tired of this little game; he just wants things to be the way they're supposed to be. There's another shuddering and rumbling in the fabric of reality as one of the panels opens onto another bedroom- this one dark, with a bed made to military precision and a wall that seemingly consists of a few stacked boxes of clothing. Only the smaller box next to the bed shows the personality of whoever slept there- certainly, nobody ever lived in this room, Stan things vaguely. The little box on the ground has a band sticker on it, and some small, worthless knicknacks, and a battered silver-plated lighter.

"Stan-" Apex and Ripley say, and they frown the same, lowering their arms the same way. The one occupying the room lurches through the mirror panel, oozing black and green ichor from the mouths that open up across her front.

" **Hhhey Stan, Rick. _Kids,_** " She says, baring too many sets of teeth.

"Gross," Stan informs her, even though Nasty is clutching onto his jacket, face half-hidden against his back. He doesn't exactly blame her. "Pumpkin, you need to pull yourself together so we can get out of here."

"That's not how it works," Apex, Ripley, and Nasty say simultaneously, and She grins at their matching expressions of horror.

" **Yyyou wanted me to turn back** ," She says, lumbering towards them. " **Nnnow you _have_ to accept what I am now**."

"Uh huh," Stan says, unimpressed. "Well, we're on a timeclock here, babycat."

"Come here," Ripley mutters, glaring at the chaotic mess. "This is supposed to be my rodeo-" Stan was worried it'd be all gross tentacles and screaming and trauma, but they touch fingertips and there's suddenly just the one of them, no flashing lights, no drama. Although now Ripley does have a couple more eyes and mouths than she generally does, but that's something to worry about later. The Ripley-She hybrid turns and gives Nasty and Obedient a wolfish grin.

"Hey," Stan says quietly, patting Nasty's head. "Remember what I said, sweetie. No matter what happens in the end. You're not gettin' left behind again."

She might trust him; or, if her earlier statements about winking out of existence are anything to go by, she might trust that what's going to happen next won't hurt. He thinks he's gonna miss her- which is stupid, probably, because if he's right she's always been in there, waiting for him to kick her to the curb. Getting Nasty back doesn't seem to improve Ripley's overall health of cleanliness, but she goes down to just a handful of eyes and two mouths, so that's something. Apex steps back enough that Good Girl doesn't have to stand next to her anymore, and sure, Rick's completely stonefaced and might never forgive Stan for this, but he doesn't stop the little one from jogging over after the Ripley hybrid gives her a gentle hand motion.

"No," Apex says again. "You're not making me be that thing again. You're- you're not making me turn back into her. I'm the Apex for a reason, I'm the one she couldn't be, the one she failed to be, I'm-"

"You're not more than me," Ripley growls, teeth bared. "Stop pretending to be worth something."

"Hey, cut that shit out," Stan says weakly, but Apex presses her mouth together, looking furious, looking hurt, and she squares her shoulders and looks away and when Ripley puts a hand on her shoulder she flickers just the once before she goes.

The ground starts rumbling, and something weird starts happening to the light. Ripley chuckles- two mouths, maybe four eyes, it's not exactly ideal- and she points at Stan.

"Now you dopes are in for it," she says, and he grins back at her. "Why are you laughing? Even if you survive the bubble collapsing in on itself, I'm Monster Ripley now, and you're gonna get ate."

"You're the dope, dope," he says, and she makes an affronted spluttering noise. "Ripley, sweetie, you're the only one makin' the rules in here. Or did you really think the forces of reality and the universe really came down together to punish _you_ specifically?"

"No way! That makes no sense, seeing as, I wouldn't make Dipper and Mabel and the kids suffer in here, either!" she protests. "So obviously-"

Mabel tugs on Ripley's Mabel sweater, and when Ripley looks down at her she buries her face in her side. "It's good to have you back."

Ripley gives Rick and Stan a panicked look, which only gets worse when Dipper joins his sister. Stan won't tell anybody if all four of her eyes get a little misty behind her glasses, there.

"Come on, R-Ripley," Rick says quietly. "Let's go save this bullshit dimension and your dumbass husband."

"Well," Ripley says hoarsely, giving the kids a few awkward pats. "I think the scientific term would be wife, but- sure. Okay. Let's go save the world or whatever." All around them, the skin of reality peels away, until it's just them next to a blighted tree in what should have been the woods. She looks up at the sky, then all around, hands on her hips.

"I mean, well, shit," she says finally.


	6. Head Over Heels

"Okay," Ripley says, rubbing her hands together and facing the car so nobody has to see what's going on with her face and neck any more than they have to. "We have a plan, we have assets, right? We have- we have these things?"

"Not really, no-" Stan admits, just as Dipper pipes up, "We do!"

Ripley puts both hands on the roof of the Stanleymobile and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath before she puts her hand around the star sapphire at her throat. It's fast- Ford's either scared or furious or both, but more importantly, he's alive. The past day is a confusing mash of memories; she can't recall if she could feel it before, but she's intensely glad to feel his heartbeat now, keeping her steady when nothing else feels normal. Stan's only told her that Ford's trapped, with Fidds and Tate and half the town, and that everyone in the Shack- and in the group with her, and Ford himself- was under protection from Bill's reality-bending. She only knows that the kids- all four of them- are being too close and clingy, like they must have seen something worse than she realizes in the Bubble, and that she's needed to save their family and the world. She has to keep it together until they're safe.

"Okay," she says, and tries not to wince when she feels her throat moving oddly. "I mean, I took care of something like Bill once with nothing but the clothes on my back, a bunch of conflicting advice from a Sage and a Hermit Rick, and a portal sword. Whatever we have now, we can use that to defeat him. What _do_ we have?"

"Personal reality fields," Mabel says brightly, and Ripley nods, shaking the iridescent bracelet on her wrist. "And a flashlight that grows and shrinks things!"

"That... is extremely good, yes, both of those things," Ripley acknowledges. "What else?"

"We have a plan that-that just needs to buy some time for the team a-at the Shack before we bring everything together," Morty says confidently.

"Is there room in this plan for rescuing Ford and Fiddleford and- and everybody holed up in that eyesore?" she asks, gesturing at the ghastly pyramid hovering over the town center.

"Yes," Summer says, and Ripley breathes out a small sigh of relief. "Actually, Aunt Ripley, we're kind of- you know, counting on you to do that?"

"Oh, good," Ripley murmurs. "Okay, before we go too far into discussing that part- what else do we have here?"

"We have all three of Grunkle Ford's journals, plus a couple of secret weapons and tools the Labcoats gave us," Dipper says brightly, patting one of the bigger shapes in his backpack. "And of course, we have you, Aunt Ripley!"

"Aw," Ripley sighs, smiling weakly despite herself. "Thanks, pumpkin."

Her gaze travels over to Stan and Rick, and Stan, at least, tries to make her feel better.

"We have Shakey and Scratchy," he suggests, holding up his fists. "An' a bunch of stuff that's real good for hittin' the heck out of any creeps that come our way," he adds, handing over the walking stick she got from the forest creatures. "Or in case your knees start feelin' bad, you know, either way."

"That's definitely useful," Ripley says, nodding and leaning lightly on the stick.

"We have a cannon back at the Shack that is blasting the eldritch r-r-right out of existence," Rick says, after a moment. "And an escape route back to there if things go bad out there."

"Love it," Ripley says, stroking her chin. "How big is this cannon?"

"We saw a blast from it turn a Cthulhu monster into sushi," Summer says, and Ripley puts her hands on her cheeks, geniunely overjoyed at the mental image.

"Oh my, that's fantastic!" she gushes, turning to Rick. "Oh wow, was that your work?"

"Joint effort w-with your loverboy," he says flatly, and her smile drops as she wrinkles her nose.

"I mean- okay," Ripley says, putting her hands on her hips. "Okay. So- so in that case- can this plan proceed if you take the kids back to the Shack right now?"

"No," Morty says quickly, trading glances with Dipper. "There's something only we can do, that we can't tell you about just in case Bill's listening." Summer and Mabel nod in agreement, which... well, okay, Ripley doesn't like that, but she's glad to see the four of them getting along so well.

"Your Grandma and Grandpa are okay?" she asks, after a moment, and the twins nod.

"Have we tried contacting anybody outside of Gravity Falls?"

"Technically, we can't," Stan says hesitantly. "The... that Doctor Elliot guy said that there is a storage facility and, uh, coincidentally an interdimensional travel monitoring site in Portland, but-"

"Really? Not doin' too good at their jobs, are they?" Ripley asks, and he huffs and nods.

"-the thing is, even if they noticed right away, there's no real way of tellin' how much time is passin' in here compared to out there, it might only be a handful of minutes or- uh- longer. And assumin' all that- assuming they notice us, that they come right away, that time is passing at the same rate for them as it is for us- there's no... real way to know if they have a way to actually get in through the protective field around the town, or if they'd be equipped to do anything about it if they did." Her face must do something, because he reaches over and grabs her hand tight, giving it a squeeze. "You know, but- we don't need that malarkey anyway."

"Yeah, malarkey," Ripley agrees weakly, before clearing her throat. "Okay, team. We need three things- we need a way to get past all those horrible giant monsters running around, we need a way into that pyramid to get our friends, and we need a way to get all the rescued people out of the danger zone. And we need to find a way to get all that done as safe as possible, even if we get attacked while doing it. Wait, four things- we need somewhere to put all those people. Okay."

"Well- we might not be able to fit all of the townspeople in the Shack, but there's a couple of places around town that might be almost entirely untouched," Dipper says, scratching his chin. "The Manotaur cave system goes really deep, and the Multi-Bear's cave is really high-"

"-and I know it wasn't nice there, but Grunkle Ford's Bunker lab looked like it was built to handle an apocalypse," Mabel adds brightly. Ripley nods unsteadily.

"Y-you know, that Foundation team's mobile b-base is probably also designed to withstand an event like this," Rick says, glaring off into the trees.

"Okay, so- this is good! We have the fourth thing, then, at least a little bit. Puts less pressure on us for now," Ripley says, even though she's positive that's still not going to be enough room- or safe enough- for the entire town's population. No point in making the kids worry any more than they have to.

"But we still have to g-get safely past all those horrible giant monsters," Morty points out, frowning. "And then get past them again on the way home."

"Unless we could take them out on the first pass," Dipper says, nodding.

"Shoot, this would be so much easier if we had our own giant monster that could fight them," Summer complains, sighing. Mabel opens her mouth, shooting Ripley a starstruck grin, one hand already brandishing a flashlight with a crystal rubber-banded to the lens.

"You look like you have an idea, pumpkin," Stan says mildly.

"We have a flashlight that can make normal-sized things giant!" Mabel crows, and Ripley blinks, understanding at once.

"And... we have a really nice monster who's good at fighting," Dipper realizes slowly, looking worried. "Aunt Ripley, what if-"

"You guys are on to something," Ripley says slowly, licking her lips- realizing, after everybody winces, that the mouth in her throat just licked its teeth, too. "It's a great idea, kids, but- I mean, you guys don't know what might happen, I might get, uh, significantly more monster-ey, I might... I might- I might turn into a monster for real, you know, uh- I don't know if you guys saw anything when you were in my- in my head or whatever all that was-"

"Sweetie," Stan says gruffly, and when she turns to look at him he grabs her by the shoulders. "I hate to break it to ya, you big beautiful chainsaw of a lady, you, but the scariest, monsteriest thing in your head is you." He gives her a surprisingly soft smile when she raises her eyes to look at his face. "Nothin' in your head would ever hurt any of us. I'd bet my life-"

She snorts, and he gives her a gentle shake.

"-I'd bet their lives on it, too, sugarbutt."

"Thought I told you not to call me that," she mutters.

"No, ya told me not to call you sweetcheeks, but if you insist," he says, and she squishes him in a hug before he can say anything else. Two Pines-flavored missiles collide with them at waist height, and she's- not necessarily shocked, but she still doesn't expect it when Morty tentatively snakes an arm around her, too. She glances up just in time to catch Summer giving them a pleasantly surprised smile, before joining in the group hug.

"Goodness gracious," Ripley says, her throat tightening. "If I get to be the center of a Pines-Sanchez cluster-hug every time I turn into an enormous monster, I might do this more often."

"Got the weirdest feelin' you just gotta ask," Stan says innocently, and she pokes him in the side. "Ow. Hey, Rick, ya wanna get in on this, or-?"

"Hard pass," Rick says flatly, scowling furiously at the tree next to him, like it's done something to offend him personally. "It might have e-escaped your notice, Pines, but we're still in the middle of a crisis s-situation."

" _Rick_ -" Stan says sharply, his body going tense, and the magic- whatever magic there was- is gone all at once, the hug breaking apart. Ripley ruffles Morty's hair as he draws back from her, sighing.

"It's fine, Stan, we can't waste any time, it's important to get this mess started." She sighs, tying her hair up. "First things first. Stan- I need you to hold on to this for me." She reluctantly unclasps the necklace from around her neck, reaching over and putting it around his. "I don't want anything happening to this, you know."

"Yeah, sure," he says, blinking. Ripley gives him a watery thumbs' up, before turning to the kids.

"Okay, the four of you- my sword can't get as big as I'm thinking of getting, because if I turned it on at that size it would, uh, probably incinerate the atmosphere or something, so. Anything in that bag that can stand getting real big and might put a nice dent in one of those monsters?"

"Your walking stick, maybe?" Summer suggests. Dipper and Morty and Mabel exchange a glance between them- it occurs to Ripley that it can't be great that those three are the only people who know all the parts and pieces of this plan- and Mabel waggles a hand.

"Probably the safest bet, yeah," she agrees. Ripley catches Rick and Stan's gazes for a moment- none of them, it seems, are too pleased with the sound of that, but if the kids' actual blood relatives don't find anything objectionable enough to say anything then she supposes she has to let it go for now.

"Alright. Well, since I don't want it to be giant-sized, I'm gonna ask-" Ripley hesitates- Morty and Summer are older, but Dipper and Mabel have some amount of combat training, after this summer. She holds the hilt to Sparky out, frowning. "Mabel, I'm not suggesting that Dipper is more capable with this than you are- you guys are about the same, honestly- but Dipper's less flammable, so. Uh. I'm trusting you two to make good decisions with this."

"I'll put it in with the other stuff until you're you-sized again, Aunt Ripley," Dipper says cheerfully. She nods, ducking down to give the twins forehead smooches.

"Alright, guys, I guess I'm ready to get, uh... big."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"When I found you, nestled in the deepest part of the pit where she'd been tortured, I- I thought you were a trap that had been set for her," he says, breaking the silence. A steady, insectile clicking seeps out from the scarred holes in his face and head, and John is almost... almost glad for it, for the fact that it can't be silent when Hyde's spider gods are speaking to him. Hyde turns his gaze toward him, looking almost amused- maybe he is, maybe he knows what John's thinking.

"I don't know how long I was down there," John says quietly, picking nervously at the seam of his homespun pants. It doesn't have the look or feel of something this Rick Sanchez- and what a nasty shock that had been, all those weeks ago- would have brought from Earth. John looks up, and Hyde is regarding him with an unreadable expression, even for Hyde. "How do you know I'm not some kind of trap?"

"I do not," Hyde announces, taking a seat at the table across from him. "But I am not scared for her when I think of your impending reunion. I have decided to do what I can to send you to her, the way I sent her to the feet of her dead goddess. It will do you both some good, and I have grown an inexplicable fondness for you both."

"Thank you," John says awkwardly, after a moment. "Do... do you know how she's doing? Is she okay, is she- is she happy?"

"She does not remember your time together," Hyde tells him quietly, and John's heart nearly stops before Hyde, seeing his face, quickly adds, "but she remembers and loves you. She may have remembered more about her time on various Earths with you and before you, having gone home. It is difficult to say what her experiences with Natashoggoth have done to her, in that regard. I know only that she succeeded in her goal."

"Do you know for _sure_ that she got home?" John presses, and Hyde gazes evenly at him. "Do you _know_ she lived past her fight with that thing?"

"I do not know this," he says softly. "I know only that I can send you to her, wherever that may be. And if you are afraid of her, of what you might find-"

"No, I know who she was before all this," John interrupts heatedly. "She was a good kid- people don't change that much, she's still her, that's all that-"

"-if I may continue," Hyde says, and John shuts his mouth, dragging his hand down his face. "You can always come back here, John. And if you don't think you can handle finding a corpse, you can stay here."

"No," John says quietly, sighing. He knows, when he looks at his hands, that he's got to be in his late sixties at the very least- although who knows how 'hundreds of years in stasis' translates to his actual age?- but this might be the first time since waking up that he's really felt all that old. "Even if she didn't make it, she- she's been alone long enough. I have to go."

"Alright," Hyde says, flattening his hand on the tabletop, the twisting, alien prosthesis resting next to it. He looks down, the spider gods silent for a few uncomfortable moments. "May I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course," John says, brow furrowed. "Within reason, I guess, but- yeah."

"You don't seem to like Sanchez," he says, and John snorts. "I know that he is not from your dimension originally-"

"It's not that I don't like him, he seems- fine, I guess," John says, and Hyde leans forward a little.

"You don't approve of him," he notes, and John hesitates.

"I didn't... meet the Rick Sanchez of my dimension, or anything, but I, ah- knew him by reputation," John says carefully. Hyde gives him a small smile.

"This Rick is not like many of the Ricks that exist in the multiverse," Hyde says, and John supposes that's true enough. Hyde inclines his head a bit. "But he has something in common with your Rick. I'm surprised that you haven't asked him about his sister, John."

"How did you-" John starts, and Hyde taps the eyepatch, the rustling noise behind it growing louder. "Right. Telepathic spider gods."

"Most Ricks have sisters," Hyde says quietly. "You might be surprised to know that his is safe. Safer than she had been, at that age."

John raises an eyebrow, and Hyde gives him another small smile. "He left her in capable hands, before he came out to the cosmos in search of his calling."

"Whose hands?" John asks, and Hyde's smile widens.

"I cannot tell you. You'd approve of his choice, though."

"Well, fine," John mutters. "So this Rick is what, slightly less criminally irresponsible than mine?"

"Only slightly," Hyde admits, and John sighs, cracking a faint smile. "They didn't recognize one another, and I felt it would be... awkward to say, at least before I had confirmation of their connection. But your experience with her as a youth and knowledge of her brother filled in the information I gleaned from their interactions."

"That's cool," John sighs. "Must be useful, bunch of telepathic spider gods."

"Thank you. It's hell," Hyde says. "I have another question. It's similarly personal."

"Sure, although, you know, buddy, if your spiders tell you this stuff anyway, I don't know why you feel like you have to formally ask-"

"The person you are acquainted with by the name of Sherman Pines," Hyde says, picking through the name like it's difficult to pronounce.

"I mean, yeah," John says slowly, puzzled. "I haven't spoken to him since before my last mission with the Foundation, though, I don't-"

"You are probably going to see him again," Hyde says mildly. John nods slowly.

"I mean- yeah, alright, I would go out of my way to look him up, he's a really good friend of-"

"She's married to his brother," Hyde says, and John stops, because he's having a hard time imagining this.

"Shermie Pines?" he asks finally.

"Yes."

"Shermie's only got two brothers," John says carefully, "and one of them died a few years ago- well, I mean, one of them died in the eighties-"

"Not that brother," Hyde clarifies. "Stanford. She has mentioned him often."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense, though, he's- like- twenty years older than she is, at the very- and, uh, just as a point of reference, we're on the same page here, regarding the fact that she hasn't been home to our dimension's Earth in all that time, so," John says, and Hyde blinks. "Are you serious?"

"He was also torn from the fabric of your dimension in the early winter of 1982," Hyde says carefully. "Or so she says. We do not use similar measurements of time."

"But Stanford was living in Oregon in 1994," John says slowly, frowning. "Or, well, as of Christmas 1993, when I got Sherm's card-"

"I'm sure this situation can be better-explained by someone else," Hyde says. "The spiders are just as confused about it as you are." John frowns- he does sort of remember that Shermie'd been... real upset about his brother's death, naturally, and had some amount of denial over it, but by the time John had met back up with Shermie and Jess for their annual post-Fourth of July discount firework roundup that year, he'd... maybe not gotten himself to accept it, but seemed to be feeling at least a little better. He can't find any way to explain the difference in the timeline, though- maybe she'd just been confused about when it was she'd been taken, herself? That... is probably more likely than anything else, he figures, although hopefully... hopefully he'll be able to ask her about it, soon.

The thought brightens John's mood considerably; he just can't help it.

"Well, seems to me like it's gonna be some really convoluted story, but I'll be sure to send you an update if I find out more," John says finally, and Hyde nods. "So... okay. So how long until I can... til I can go to her, then?"

"You'll have to be patient for just a little longer," Hyde says, thinking. "You'll have to be patient for... about twenty minutes."

"That's- that's not bad at all," John says, a grin breaking over his features. "Alright. I've waited all this time, I can wait twenty more minutes."

"I could have Rick make a new cup of tea for you," Hyde suggests. "He's been hoping to find some way to ingratiate himself to you."

"He called me an asshole to my face," John says mildly, and Hyde shrugs.

"He's bad at human interaction." Hyde moves to get up but stops, one finger tracing nervously across the tabletop. "You asked how I knew that you weren't some sort of trap laid out for her, a way for that creature to hurt her again."

"You said you didn't know if I was or not," John reminds him quietly, and he nods.

"Your mission, in your old life, was to protect anyone who needed your protection. At what point did you..." Hyde trails off, looking almost disconcertingly human, for once. "I had children, once. It's hard sometimes, to... to remember what it felt like."

John instinctively puts a hand over Hyde's, surprising himself. "You mean, when did it stop being... a part of my job?" he asks awkwardly, but Hyde apparently understands, nodding gratefully.

"Well..." John sighs. "I mean, I never really- things might very well be different nowadays, but I was an active field agent for almost thirty years, which... is weird to think about, now. I was eighteen when I started, and even then, you know, you really... you knew that nobody was really supposed to have a family. The people who worked in offices and labs did, and people who'd been just injured enough to get out of the field did, sometimes, but usually... if you even lived long enough to start thinking about it, you'd usually seen too much to want to bring some innocent kid into the picture. And even if you got yourself some kind of stable home situation, there were always a bunch of, uh... well, you know, they call them Foundation babies. Or they did."

"Children orphaned by your work?" Hyde clarifies, and John nods.

"I sort of thought maybe one day, you know, I'd get my little... house on a patch of grass on the edge of some low-security base somewhere and bring up some kid who'd seen too much to go into the foster system. And then I just... kept missing my chance to do that, somehow," he sighs. "And right around when I started to accept that, this... anomalous stuff started popping up. Little toys and dolls made out of stuff our guys had only seen on crashed space ships and alternate-universe archaeological digs. A blanket that had bumblebees stitched into the corners and tried to cuddle anybody who held it. Stuff that... I mean, stuff that had obviously been made for kids. A specific kid. The same kid, who, uh... who kept losing all their stuff."

John lowers his eyes, huffing a small sigh. "The first one was a little alien toy named Charlie. He would... he would wake up, I guess, hatch out of his little egg, and play with her, and after a while he would sing a lullaby. I've seen... a lot of stuff. Stuff that's sent a third of the guys I've worked with into early retirement- PTSD, it, uh, it's a thing, I don't know if they have that in space or anything, but-"

Hyde motions at him to continue, and he nods, inhaling deeply.

"Nothing I saw kept me up at night more than... than a weird little toy for some weird little kid that was built solely to sing her to sleep at bedtime. And I started... thinking about the kind of kid who'd need it. I mean, I didn't know anything about her, just... just that she must have been weird." John cracks a grin. "I mean, the kind of weird that would have fit right in to that... house on patch of grass at the edge of that low-security base."

 "You began to imagine, even then, that you would... parent this mysterious child," Hyde says, and John shrugs shyly.

"I don't know if I ever... really let myself think that was ever gonna happen," John says quietly. "And I don't think I ever thought I'd ever meet her. I was looking for the person who was making all this stuff, you know? Because it was dangerous. The blanket tried to strangle a man to death after he tried to collect a two-inch sample. Charlie was radioactive and scratched like a cat when approached by anybody over the age of thirty. And there was something called a- a Mini Meeseeks, and... and it could talk, but... it said some really worrying stuff," he finishes lamely, because he doesn't know if he can articulate that what worried him was that Meeseeks knew it had to hide from the kid's parents, that it knew about Charlie being missing and knew that some little kid must have been missing it, that something about the way Meeseeks had cringed at the thought of the kid's mother approaching had set off an alarm deep in the back of John's brain.

Hyde might understand- might be reading all this with his spider gods, anyway- and John scrubs fruitlessly at the back of his neck. "So I mean, it makes sense now. Rick Sanchez seems like... well, your Rick seems like a nice enough guy, and this stuff our Rick was making was probably all well-intentioned, but someone who could make that kind of stuff as a toymaker could... well, the Foundation's had a troubled history with toymakers, anyway."

"According to Rick, most Rick Sanchezes are arms dealers," Hyde says, and John makes a soft, vaguely distressed noise at the back of his throat. "I can see how this would be troubling to you."

"Yeah, well... I suppose it's gonna have to be those other Foundations' problems," John mutters, folding his arms. "Alright. So- so how long _now_ before I can go see her?"

"Oh. We had not started preparations yet," Hyde says, a touch apologetically. "We thought it best to wait for your story to finish."

"Oh. Yeah, uh, okay, thank you, but also, I'm- very anxious to get back home now," John says, and Hyde nods.

"Alright. Make what preparations you need to make, John."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The air is thick with dust and some foul, unfamiliar odor inside the bubble of masonry Bill's attached to the outer edges of what Ford assumes is his personal protection boundary. His first- and second, third, fourth, and fifth- instinct is to try to beat, punch, or pummel his way out of the stonework. Lucky number six's idea is to sit down and try to remain calm and assess the situation.

 _Alright_ , Ford thinks, pulling the neck of Ripley's shirt over his mouth and nose. There is a sense of movement outside, and it feels like his personal gravity is being affected by that movement, and there are gibbering hoots and howls and the occassional flashing light outside. So. Bill is probably still moving him towards wherever it is Bill intends to keep him.

Unless he's already where he's supposed to be, and Bill's just fucking with him.

Next, Ford does an inventory check. He'd been dressed to kill Bill, at least, and even though he no longer has his big Bill-killing blaster, he still has his trusty plasma-shooting sidearm and a couple of general anti-evil offensive cantrips hidden about his person. And even though his trenchcoat- and hair, he's pretty sure- smells like masonry dust and whatever the foulness in the air is, his shirt still smells like Ripley- Ripley's shampoo, Ripley's laundry detergent, Ripley's machine oil and clover honey- and that, at least, makes him feel better, if a little sad.

So. Not completely helpless. Possibly able to break out of the bubble at any time, but with the added caveat that he might drop hundreds of feet to his death, or into a giant vat of hot goo, or something. Ford inhales slowly. What would Ripley do?

Well. Ripley would probably already have a way out of this. Ford squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly.

She would be doing _this_ , he tells himself sternly. Sitting, and thinking, and figuring out what to do. Exactly as they practiced together, exactly as he's doing now. It's sort of comforting but also, unfortunately, not really the most helpful realization. He closes his hand over the pendant at his neck, willing it to start moving again, deflating slightly when it obstinately refuses to do so.

Alright. What would his brothers do?

A mildly amusing but deeply disheartening mental image of Shermie and Stan appears- both of them crowded in together, both of them shouting furiously and attempting to punch their way out of this. Ford rubs his aching knuckles and winces. It's probably a Pines family trait.

What would Fiddleford do?

Stupid lovely brilliant Fiddleford would probably either completely fall to pieces or somehow manage to break free without compromising his own safety. He would probably do something dashing and fantastic on the way out, too. Probably make everyone else feel stupid for letting things get this bad, possibly say something endearingly Southern. Ford groans and puts his head in his hands. Either that, or have a debilitating panic attack the whole time. Possibly while Bill watched and laughed.

What would Rick do?

Ford stares blankly at the inside of the stonework bubble. Rick probably would have cobbled his gear into a working portal gun and gotten out of here. Ford checks his pockets for anything that might do the trick, but no.

He breathes through the front of his borrowed shirt, trying to wrack his brain and consider what everybody he knows- what _anybody_ he knows- would do in this situation. Regrettably, even when he can think of some kind of solution, even just a partial one, his mind invariably goes back to the ultimate question: What if Bill's just fucking with him?

Ford breathes out a sigh. No. He can't let the fear of Bill fucking with him paralyze him, because that's exactly the kind of thing Bill would find hilarious, especially if he didn't even have to do anything in the first place.

He digs through his pockets again, looking for anything useful-

-and stops, humming contemplatively as he pulls out a severely chewed-up ballpoint pen and a very small blue knitted tube that... might have been for a puppet show? Ford thinks he recalls? He's not entirely sure how or when his pockets became a repository for the children's detritus, although, to be fair, that does sort of point to Ford having accidentally taken his clothing out of Ripley's side of the drawer this morning.

Ford's hand closes over the tiny foreign objects. He would never have imagined, over the sixty years of his life prior to coming home this summer, that there'd be two children who'd become the light of his life.

And yet here we are, he thinks to himself.

Alright.

What would Dipper and Mabel do?

It's trickier, because he doesn't know them nearly as well as he'd like, but-

-Ford raises his head, blinking at the inside of the rubble bubble. They'd figure out how to get out if they had to in a pinch, but he likes to think they'd trust that he and Stan and Ripley and their grandparents would move heaven and earth to rescue them. They'd trust this family to fix things-

-and at his neck, almost startling him, the star sapphire pendant starts beating with Ripley's pulse again. Slightly elevated, but he suspects- through his almost blinding relief and gratitude- that he should expect everyone to be pretty keyed up, given the circumstances. Ford chews on his thumbnail, putting the niblings' stuff back in his pocket. Whatever else this means, it's going to mean that some part of Bill's plan has to change, and _that_ means-

"Heya, Six-fingers!" The bubble unfurls around him, dropping Ford to a thickly carpeted floor. He shuts his eyes to stop himself from really seeing what it's carpeted with, only opening his eyes when he feels a chair pushed forcefully up against his back. Bill bounces cheerfully in place- larger than Ford thinks he usually is, and visibly thin- not the eye-searing flatness of Bill's two-dimensional dream-form, but something with a definite edge and depth. Ford allows himself a tiny glance around- the ceiling is impossibly high, the walls terminating in a lofty fog, although there seems to be a lot of art on the walls. Ford glances down at the rug- it looks and feels like fire-truck red fur, ankle-deep and shaggy, and it's a vaguely humanoid, eight-limbed shape that looks distantly but horribly familiar.

 _Stay calm stay calm stay calm_ , Ford thinks furiously, his jaw tightening. She's out there, that means the entire family is probably out there rescuing her, that means you need to keep Bill distracted here as long as possible.

"Cipher," he says, as coldly as possible. "What do you want?"

"Oh, you want me to bring out that cut musical number, or should I go with a monologue?" Bill asks, tittering to himself. "No, Fordsy. I'm here to find out what _you_ want! Look at all this great stuff here, Pines, we have eyeballs, we have jars of cats, we have sixteen screaming marionettes stuffed chock-full with the souls of ancient pre-Cambrian astronauts, what do you want? What do you like?"

Ford snaps his mouth shut- even now, decades later, the sound of Ripley patiently but stubbornly explaining The Ghostbusters Rule of Negotiation comes back to him. Clear your mind. Blank your mind. They still haven't seen that movie together, Stan said he had it on- blank your mind, clear your mind.

Bill chuckles, his eye narrowing.

"Well, maybe next time, right, Sixer?" He flies around a few times, whiplike arms stretching to cross behind him in a mockery of a contemplative pose until he comes to a stop next to a triangular window. "Look out there. I got dozens of demons from ten different dimensions in one place, I've broken through the barrier into the physical realm, and what do those animals do? They party. They think this is the end of the game. They think this is a _win_."

Bill doesn't turn so much as he shimmers and twists in place to face him. "Yanno, I spent so many eons putting all of this into motion that I don't think I really knew what I'd actually do with it once it happened, Fordsy."

"You got what you wanted and now you're disappointed, Cipher?" Ford spits. "How fucking _sad_ for you."

"Not impressed?" Bill's expression tightens in what Ford thinks would have been a sharklike smile on someone with a face. "Just like your old man, huh?"

Ford bites back the urge to snarl something, and Bill watches him, eerily still.

"We're friends, aren't we, Sixer?" he asks, and before Ford can verbally disabuse him of this notion he continues, "Every time you asked, I gave. You wanted knowledge? I mean, I dare you to show me somebody who knows more than you do about the multiverse and isn't named Sanchez. You wanted freedom? You had thirty years away from this crap planet- no tedious family functions, no slogging through the publishing process, no awkward conversations with people who can't even begin to under-" Bill stops, and something in the way his eye slides treacherously towards Ford makes his skin crawl. "Well, almost. I knew giving you the One Sword to play with for a few years would be a bit of a crap shoot there- but hey, you were lonely and I gave you companionship. Not my fault the only Sanchez to get lost in space swam in the shallow end of the gene pool."

"You're insane," Ford says flatly, and Bill tilts quizzically at him.

"Right, right, but I never let that get in the way of our friendship, have I?"

"We're not friends," Ford snaps, and Bill trills something only slightly laugh-like.

"Sure, pal. And that's _not_ your future widow out there transforming into a ravenous beast right now," he says sarcastically, and Ford jerks back slightly against the chair.

"You're going to kill me?" he asks sharply, and Bill blinks.

"What? No! Why would I kill you now, of all times?"

"You just said," Ford growls, "that you're going to turn my wife into a widow."

"Yeah," Bill says slowly. "Because she's gonna die. Dead wife is a widow."

"No it isn't!" Ford explodes, jumping to his feet. "If the other person dies, then the wife that's left over is the widow! She doesn't turn into a widow if she dies, that makes _no fucking sense_!"

"Easy on the semantics, buddy, geeze, this isn't the 2012 Grammar Olympics," Bill huffs. "Fine.  _You're_ the future widow. There, are you happy?"

"You're not going to kill Ripley," Ford says, fighting to control himself- for a moment the pendant on his chest goes still, but it starts back up again, although... weaker, with a worrying flutter to it. He needs to talk to Ripley about that, get her in to see a real doctor, or, well, have Jess take a look at her, either way. But it's fine. It's going to be fine.

Bill titters for far too long. "No, not at all, Fordsy, I'm not gonna kill your wife! She's gonna do that for me!"

"Fuck you," Ford snarls, and Bill narrows his eye down at him.

"Promise?" he asks, and before Ford can react a fist the size of a golf cart plows through the masonwork overhead, sending rubble flying.

 **"Hey!"** Ripley bellows in a voice like the legion speaking into a megaphone. Ford's jaw drops as a hysterical giggle starts up. **"Get your hands off my wife!"**

Bill says something; Ford's laughing too loudly to hear him.


	7. Twisted Nerve

There are perks to being big. Scooping up her family and depositing them neatly into the hood of her Mabel Sweater ranks right up there, next to the happy realization that if she _did_ encounter a T-Rex today, she'd be big enough to pick him up for a cuddle.

She also, if she has to admit, really, really enjoys putting a fist through Bill's pyramid- well, putting a fist through anything feels good right now, even though her vision's starting to get a little blurry from the extra eyes that have apparently managed to sprout on her face without the benefit of corrective lenses.

Best not to think of it, or of the fact that when she breaks out into a wide, manic grin, she can feel the pull of muscle and skin across the front of her throat, or the corners of her mouth stretching wider than she would have thought possible. She's going to focus, instead, on how she finally got to start a fight by throwing a punch and shouting something sterotypical and cliched in her wife's honor- from the look of him, Ford also appreciates the joke, and she's hoping to get at least nine or ten retellings out of this moment.

Bill expands to nearly her size, and she slams her hand down between him and Ford before she can let herself think about what Bill might do about this.

"Hey, Kittenwhiskers, long time no see," she booms, and hot _damn_ if she doesn't love how loud she is at this size.

"Hey, One Sword, looks like you wasted no time fitting in with the rest of us freaks and monsters!" Bill titters, and she closes her hand around Ford, holding him like a particularly delicate specimen, her other hand loosely tapping her redwood-sized walking stick against the forest floor. "So I gotta ask, one horrifying demonic presence to another- what exactly do you think you're going to accomplish here?"

"First off," she huffs, cupping Ford to her shoulder to let him clamber up onto her sweater, "I'm gonna rip you limb from limb, Bill, and when I'm done with that I'm gonna clean up the mess you made, and you, you geometric bastard, will not be around to see anything after, ever again."

"Nope, that's not at _all_ how that's gonna go," Bill says, shining brightly against the muddying swirl of color splashed across the landscape. Something is squeaking near her ear- it takes a second to realize that it's Ford, hopping in place and trying to get her attention. "See, you forgot one thing here, Big Fun-"

There is a roar- loud, though not as loud as Ripley is- and a faceless, house-sized gorilla made of bedrock and- wearing a party hat?- pounds its fists against the mountainside at her. A bright, pink and blue spit of fire dances up onto its back, cawing alien invectives that Ripley's translator implant can't keep up with, and she is joined swiftly by a huge, grayskinned baby with bull horns and burning eyes.

"-this isn't a fight between me an' you, babe. **_This is a family reunion!_** " he crows, raising one needle-thin arm, his hand ablaze in blue-hot flame, and behind him, the trio of monsters- Henchmaniacs, Ripley recalls brightly, a name that Ford had used with disgust but that Ripley had, admittedly, found clever- all grow until she's staring them down eye to eye- or, well, in the case of the faceless one, eye to hat.

"Well, fuck all y'all," Ripley says, hands gripping her staff.

"Pyronica, kiddo, why don't you show Newbie the ropes?" Bill asks, and as Ripley swings the walking stick he shrinks back down to the size of her hand, dancing up the length of her arm- down to the size of her thumbnail, buzzing annoyingly around her face- down to a gold speck, barely visible against the chaos behind him. It takes her a second to realize he's talking to Ford on her shoulder, but before she can do anything- grab Ford or swat Bill or even turn fully to look- the big cyclops girl is there, grabbing Ripley's ponytail and yanking it back to expose the mouth on her throat.

"Nice chompers, Sis!" she says brightly, laughing with a crackle of flame as Ripley flails and fights to keep from losing her balance. "Hey, whoa there, ya might squish your toys if yer not careful, eh?"

"Get offa me!" Ripley snaps, shaking her loose, something crunching underfoot as she struggles to steady herself. "You asshats wanna live, you'll clear the fuck out before you get what's comin' to you-"

"What a mouth on her!" Pyronica marvels, elbowing the baby-monster-giant. "She takes after you, Paci-Fire!"

"You are aware that I was not an influence on this one's development," the baby intones, the light in his eyes flaring with every word. "Furthermore, if you are referring to the curses spewing from her mouths-"

"Shut the fuck up," Ripley says, raising her walking stick like the practice swords Hyde- and Devaaki before him- used to make her practice with. "This is your last fucking chance to leave this dimension alive!"

"-clearly you are willfully recategorizing the numberless curses I inflicted upon my victims during my-" he continues, right up until Ripley's walking stick slams into the side of his face in a spray of blood and teeth.

"Haha, yeah, that's it, let it out!" Pyronica howls gleefully, dancing out of the way as Ripley swings again. "Come on, hit him again, you know you wanna! Xanthar, get in on this, buddy! Just relax and let go, Sis, we all went through the same thing! Everybody tries to fight it at first, but aren't you, like, tired of holding it in all the time? Aren't you tired of trying to be that thing you used to be? It's time to let loose and embrace it, baby! You're one of us now!"

"Fuck you," Ripley snarls- from ground level Paci-Fire rumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "shut the fuck up, Pyronica," but Ripley could very well be mistaken there. The ground shakes as Xanthar barrels towards them on all fours, and Ripley barely manages to block a leap from the crouching menace with her stick before something burning-hot and sticky slams into her arm, wrapping around it.

"Gross!" Ripley shrieks, before it hits her that it's a tongue- it's Pyronica's tongue, stretched froglike from her mouth across the clearing. Ripley's teeth bare, and in front of her Paci-Fire levitates up from the ground, his bloody teeth trailing after him. Something in Ripley's mind stutters and halts, and another blow from Xanthar's forelegs drives her staggering back. She has to fight not to fall again, her knees trembling. "Fuck off- fuck off, get away from me-"

"There is no such thing as resistance," Paci-Fire says, bright, burning eyes opening in his chest and forehead. "This is what you were born to be, Sister." Xanthar backs up slightly and something in Ripley snaps at her in Hyde's voice- is this the woman who fought an army of thirty-five sword-wielding murderesses and a chaos goddess, or is this the unlucky bitch who dies today?

Ripley twists, the hand of her bound wrist grabbing onto Pyronica's fiery tongue, and when Xanthar charges again she hurls the demoness toward him in a thunderous collision. Paci-Fire tilts his head at her, and she grips her stick in both hands, her newly-freed arm still smoking, green-black ichor oozing from the raw, open places on her wrist and hand.

"We'll just fucking see about that," Ripley growls, and his eyes flare brightly in response.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 It comes in bits and pieces.

She's never hitch-hiked before, but she doesn't want to use what's left of Sparky's power supply for this, not when she knows she has so much farther to go, not when she knows that she's probably going to die at the end of all this. It seems weirdly selfish to do this- to prolong this final trip, hitting as many places that Ford has been before as she can, to make it last weeks or months instead of days or hours, to breathe the air he can't be breathing- but a part of her wants to be selfish, just this once, just this way. She gets a lady with a gooseneck trailer and a couple of brown horses to agree to take her from Atlanta to Fayetteville, and they talk a little but mostly not. Most of the trip is in driving February rain, and the lady muttering quietly about the weather but expecting no response. She puts her forehead against the glass and watches the world pass by.

Sweating and hungry and bone-tired, waiting to talk to a longhaired guy in a black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off who's at a card table, signing CDs. It's not a long wait, at least.

"Hey man, great show," she says, and he beams at her, like- like he's fucking proud of himself, like he cares what she thinks.

"Thanks! Hey, is that a Flesh Curtains shirt?" he asks, eyes widening. "Wow, where'd you even get that? They haven't been on tour in, what, ten, fifteen years?"

"My brother had a garage full of'em," she says, grinning. "Say, this- this is gonna sound weird, but, uh- you busy right now?"

"Well-" He stands, peering behind her to see if there's anyone else waiting in line to see him. She's alone in front of him now, but she'd really like to take this somewhere more private, too. "Nope. Perks of bein' a one man band, I work on my own timetable. What's up, buttercup?"

"Uh, that- that's not my name," she says haltingly, and he blinks, raising his hands in surrender and grinning sheepishly.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm pretty jazzed to meet someone else who likes weird seventies experimental sci-punk," he says by way of apology, and she finds it... well, acceptable. "So what did you wanna talk about?"

"Um, can we, uh-" She glances over to the edge of the field, where what is presumably _his_ van bearing his stage name on it stands parked. "Can, uh- can we take this into your office?"

"What? Oh! Sure thing," he says brightly, shoveling the still-tall stack of CDs into a Winn Dixie grocery bag and tucking his arm through the handles. "Marty's probably, uh- probably not in there, so we can talk, then."

"Who's Marty?" she asks, jamming her hands into her pockets to hide her nervousness. It's not her first time doing this but she doesn't know when, if ever, she's supposed to get used to it. _Some_ people must, though.

"Oh, him, that- that's my manager, he's- he's not, uh... I wouldn't want your first impression of me to, uh, include him," he says tactfully. She nods, swallowing thickly. "Anyway, he said he was goin' out to pick up some food, but, uh-" He stops, sweating. "You know what, let me just check to make sure he's not, uh, busy in there."

She watches him knock tentatively on the back of the van, then a little harder. He tries the door, and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds it empty. It reminds her uncomfortably of home, somehow. She climbs in after him, though, shucking off her backpack and putting it on the floor next to the mattress.

"Alright, climb aboard. Hey, you thirsty or anything? I have some, uh... warm Tab Cola. Sorry, I didn't buy it, it just-"

"Oh, uh- yeah, actually," she says, and he passes a can over to her. She hasn't had anything to drink since early this morning, when she successfully smuggled a carton of milk out of some dinky little corner store with no security cameras. She's got the entire can empty before she notices him watching her with an expression of... worry? Concern? She realizes how this must look, wiping her mouth against the back of her arm. Stupid. He's never gonna give you what you want now.

"I uh... sure do... like that Tab Cola," she says weakly, and he shoots her a puzzled smile. "So, uh, back to- back to business, I guess. Um, can- can you close the-?"

"Oh, uh... yeah, sure," he says awkwardly, and, feeling bad, feeling like she's already fucked this up, she puts both hands where he can see them.

"I'm not- I'm not gonna axe-murder you or rob you or anything, if- if that's what you're worried about-" she starts, and he lets out a brief, startled laugh.

"What? Oh, no! No, that's not- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- to make you think-" he stammers, shutting the door.

"Oh, uh, good. Okay," she says, running a hand through her hair.

"Um, yeah. So- so you want to talk about the show, right?" he asks hopefully, and she takes a deep breath. She thinks she can get a place to sleep indoors tonight- well, if the mattress in the van is any indication, indoors-ish- and maybe even bum another can of soda and some cigarettes off this guy, as long as she doesn't mess this up like last time.

"You know, yeah, a little bit, but, uh- so, uh, your show was- was really good," she mumbles. She's- she doesn't really know what she's supposed to say, what the magic combination of words is to indicate that there's actually a pretty _short_ list of things she won't do if that's what he wants in exchange for a few hours of relative comfort and maybe a second drink. He's nodding vaguely, looking glassy-eyed at her, at her shirt, so she figures that must have been the right thing to say to- to initiate things.

She pulls her shirt off and he physically recoils away from her, banging his head against the side of the van and clapping both hands over his eyes. She doesn't know how to respond to that, but warring feelings of relief and self-loathing seem to be making a strong case for themselves.

"What are you doing? Put- put that back on!" he yelps, and she looks down at the shirt in her hands, confused. She... is pretty sure men... don't like girls to wear shirts? Shit, this is something she should have paid more attention to. Maybe he's gay? Is this plan even gonna work if he's gay? "Come on, Miss, that's- I don't-"

"I can put it back on," she says quickly, desperation edging into her voice as she tugs it over her head. "That- that's okay, right? I just- look, what do you want? Anything you want. Everything you want. I just- I just need somewhere to-"

"How old are you," he whispers, hands still covering his face.

"I'm- I'll be eighteen on my birthday," she says- technically not a lie, it's just six months out. "Graduated high school last month. That's- I'm, you know- you don't have to worry about the cops or anything-"

"God, that's not-" he starts to say, before cutting himself off. "Are, uh- are you- wearing a shirt again?"

"Y-yeah," she says quietly, and he nods, shakily lowering his hands. "So... so are you gay or- or what?"

"Uh... that's not really... relevant to the..." He trails off, looking her up and down. "You, um, you got any stuff? I mean, other than- other than that backpack?"

"Um... yeah, no, not- not with me," she says, too shaken to make it sound convincing. "But, I, uh- I might be able to get you something if-"

"It's just, uh- you know, bein' a one man band is kinda- hard on the back, sometimes, and, uh," he says, not looking directly at her, "I could use a roadie, you know?"

She swallows, blinking down at her lap. "You, uh... yeah?"

"You know, the- the pay's not great but I know a few ways to get around that, and, uh, I have... eight dollars and fifty cents right now, that's enough to get us a large cheese pizza and a two-liter of Sprite, so, uh, dinner's on me if you... if you want?"

"Like... like a date?" she asks, and he shakes his head, his thick hair flying.

"Nope! Nope, not a- not a date, uh, I'm twenty-two years old, actually, so, no, never, that- that will never, ever happen between us, no," he says firmly, and she breathes out another sigh of maybe-relief. "Just- two pals who work together on a kickass music tour eatin' dinner like pals. That's- that's it."

"Oh," she says slowly. "That- well- okay, then. Yeah. I can- I can help you set up and stuff, break down your set, keep... keep the cords, uh... wrangled."

"Alright. Alright!" He beams sunnily at her, as if- as if it's okay, as if things are gonna be okay now. "Well, in that case, we're friends and coworkers now, so, uh, so that- so good!"

"Okay, Mister Universe," she says, and he grins cheekily at her.

"Since we're friends, it's just Greg," he says.

"Okay, Greg, um, well," she stammers. "I-In that case- well, uh, my name's-"

She startles awake- no, not quite, she wasn't sleeping, was she?

But the nice horse lady is giving her a close look, and the truck's stopped.

"Goin' in for coffee, you want any?"

"Oh, let me buy, I insist," Ripley says, breathing out a sigh. "Time got away from me there, didn't it?"

"Ayuh, it happens," the nice lady agrees. Ripley's a little sad when she gets to North Carolina and has to part ways, but there's a long way to go before she hits New Jersey and Ford's home town.

It startles her to realize that she must not have really lost it in the first place.

She's in a bar- as far as she can tell, the only bar on this side of town. Glass Shard Beach kind of sucks.

She's in a bar when she hears the song- it sounds vaguely familiar, and then it hits her all at once.

"Hey, sir?" she asks the bartender, pointing at the ceiling speaker when she's got his attention. "This is gonna sound weird, but do you know if the Clash ever recorded an acoustic version of this song?"

"Nope, not as far as I'm aware," he says, and she lowers her hand, drumming it on the bartop.

"Huh," she says, frowning down at her drink.

"I don't know a lot about babies," Ripley tells the blueskinned fauh'khan baby, who just makes a fussy noise at her in response. Still- she hadn't expected the alien family to let her in at all, and it seems rude to accept their food and hospitality and then not do a little bit of babysitting for them. Seems weird they'd just leave their baby with a stranger, but she vaguely recalls that maybe Ford or one of the people she met with Ford had told her something. They might be empaths? Or- or telepaths? She's not super sure what the difference is, but, regardless, here she is, alone in a house with a living being roughly the same shape and weight as a sack of potatoes.

She tentatively puts a hand on the back of his head and rests his face against her shoulder, which... seems to be the right thing to do, maybe. She clears her throat. "Don't know more than just the one lullaby, either, kid."

He fusses at her, and she surprises herself by first humming, then singing gently.

"London calling, to the faraway towns, now war is declared, an' battle come down," she murmurs softly, rocking him slowly. "London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboards, you boys and girls-"

He's asleep by the time she finishes the song, but she hums it a few more times anyway, staring out the dim windows. As soon as she stops moving he shifts, making a squeaky noise at her chest.

"Oh, stop it, buddy," she chides gently. "I told you I only know the one lullaby, didn't I?"

She listens to the rest of the song in silence. _Someone_ must have sung to her, once.

It comes. It goes.

She pulls Buck's Pussywagon up to a gas station in Wyoming and opens the door, her hands shaking. She thinks she can stand and put gas in the car, but after a moment or two of gulping in great lungfuls of air she finds that she cannot.

She crouches down, head between her knees- she thinks she's one wrong thought away from throwing up.

She passed through a lot of sunflower fields on the way. Something about them- the exact shade of yellow, maybe, who's to say?- put her in mind of meeting Ford, escaping the pitfighting ring with Ford, of living with Devaaki, of losing Devaaki. Something in the fields made her think of Cipher's voice, somehow.

_just ask him what he did to his own brother_

She drags her hands through her hair, lacing her fingers at the back of her neck.

Driving Hyde crazy because she and Rick keep finishing each other's sentences, even the really fucking weird and random ones.

God, she hasn't- hasn't thought of Cipher all that much in months, years even. Not really. Not since losing Ford.

Maybe it's the state, she thinks blearily. She and Ford have been to a Wyoming before.

"You like music?" Rick asks over dinner, passing a slim, earthenware bottle to Hyde, who pours the dark, thick sauce onto his bowl of noodles. "I was in a band, before I left Earth to become one with the c-c-cosmos and all."

"Yeah?" Ripley asks, mostly to be polite. The sauce looks good but she's not sure if she should ask to try it.

"Yeah. Mostly experimental sci-punk," he says cheerfully. "I-It was a weiuurrgh-eird time."

"Not at mealtimes, Rick," Hyde snaps, and he rolls his eyes at her across the table.

She doesn't know what this is called.

It's not amnesia- can't be, when you keep remembering random things, for no reason, even when it makes you sick, or scared, or upset to remember them.

It takes her a few tries but she manages to stand, and she can even paw at the gas cap until it's open, and after another couple of tries she actually figures out how to use the machine to fill the tank. Not too bad for her first attempt in three months.

"My brother had a garage full of'em," she says, grinning.

A loud thunk from the nozzle shakes her out of- of her reverie or whatever that was. She blinks and puts it back onto the little stand, and screws the gas cap shut.

Someone else pulls up to the gas station on a motorcycle, doing a double-take as he looks at the word emblazoned across the back of Buck's awful car.

"That- that's a unique vehicle, there," he says tactfully, and she snorts. "Where, uh- where'd you get it?"

"Oh, I didn't- I actually don't know," she admits, huffing and tucking her wallet back into her pocket. Buck's knife isn't too far away, but the biker seems to be keeping his distance. "It belonged to my brother, is all."

"Your brother gave you _that_ car?" he asks, and something in her head freezes, becomes eighteen again.

"My brother was eaten by wolves on the Connecticut Turnpike," she says mechanically, and the man takes a step back.

"Oh, uh... sorry for your loss," he says awkwardly.

Something that had been buzzing for attention in her head all day goes quiet and still, and a part of her thinks that maybe the words still have power, before she asks herself what the everloving _fuck_ she means by that.

Ripley gives a stiff nod and thanks him for his kind words, before slamming her way back into Buck's car and driving off. She should be able to get to Yellowstone tomorrow morning, maybe.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It takes a minute or two before Ford realizes that at their relative sizes, Ripley just- just can't hear him, or at least interpret what it is he's yelling up at her. To be fair, most of it is either fervent declarations of love and thanks, or dire warnings against engaging with Bill, both of which she should already be totally aware of already.

Apparently, though- well, apparently she only knows about the first thing, because she takes a mean swing in Bill's direction and he almost tumbles off her shoulder, barely catching himself on the massive yarn fibers of her sweater. The abhorrent glow of Bill's physical form rushes up at him from her wrist, becoming the hand-sized triangle of light that Ford's so very familiar with as soon as he's close enough to talk.

"Cipher!" Ford barks, before Bill can say anything. "Whatever you're trying to pull, it won't-" He very nearly falls as the ground- or, rather, Ripley- pitches forward and to one side, and only the fact that the yarn is so easy to grab onto prevents him from tumbling to what would, unfortunately, be his death at Ripley's feet. There is an enormous fist buried in Ripley's hair overhead; Ford has to grind his teeth to stop himself from doing something rash.

"Cool it, Fordsy! Much as I hate to admit it, this isn't _my_ show anymore!" Bill says cheerfully, fluttering back and forth. "I mean, I've already won! Half the people who could have been useful to you have been turned to stone- the Seer, the Scholar, Whisper- and the other half are, well-" He laughs as the huge hand lets go of Ripley's ponytail, and Ripley staggers again, nearly dislodging Ford once more. "Well, you see how that's going!"

"I do see," Ford says coldly. "I see you _fled_ the moment you had to face an opponent with a fair shot at standing up to you."

"Sixer, Sixer, Sixer," Bill coos. "You gotta look at the big picture! And, I gotta say, it's a lot bigger than ever now that your monster girlfriend got party-sized!"

"Monster _wife_ ," Ford snaps, and Bill pauses, pretending to take him in. "You scared, Cipher? You'd be right to be. She's the number one swordswoman in the multiverse and she's killed your kind before- and you're stuck within the borders of this town, of all places! You literally, physically can't escape from her! Billions of years of planning this and you... set it all up in the one place in all the world where...." 

"No, no, go on, Fordsy, tell me how screwed I am," Bill sneers. "Kind of an awkward place to trail off like that, buddy, why don't you finish that sentence there?"

"...you set it up," Ford says hollowly- he's known it, certainly, for decades; Bill Cipher is insidious and a manipulator and has been planning Weirdmageddon since before the Earth was formed, if what he threatens is right. Bill, who at the very least knew everything Ford knew or suspected about Gravity Falls and its so-called weirdness barrier prior to his fall through the portal. Bill, who found a way to start Weirdmageddon even when Ford had been sure that he couldn't have reasonably done so, using something Ford had never bothered to think of as the same kind of thing as the portal in his basement lab.

Bill, who'd promised weeks ago that Ripley was going to turn into a monster, was turning into his supposedly-dead former minion.

"You knew," Ford says softly. "You knew the barrier was here... and you chose this place anyway. You _knew_ that the borders of the weirdness barrier would be strong enough to keep your forces at bay... and you, still... because _you built it yourself_."

"Ohhhh, _almost_ ," Bill laughs, ruffling Ford's hair. "No, Six-Fingers, I didn't build the barrier. I just made her do it," he explains, sprouting another arm to wave in Ripley's direction.

"You mean you- you had the demon who haunted her build it," Ford tries, but something dreadful is settling in his gut with every word.

"Tomayto, tomahto- I mean, there's no real physical difference between the two of them, they're both from here, made of the same ingredients, inhabiting the same place in space and time, _bonded body and soul into one being **incapable of being separated into its component parts**_ ," Bill's eye flashes scenes of chaos and destruction- some that Ford's seen in Ripley's mindscape, some that Bill's shown him in his own- and his hellish glow intensifies. "Which makes the desperate, terrified conviction she's held over the past few months that you'll be able to save her all the more hilarious! She legitimately thought you could do something to stop what's happened to her, _what is currently happening_ to her!"

"She's not wrong!" Ford snaps, and Bill just laughs. Ford draws himself up a little, one hand still clutching onto the sweater. "You have no concept of what she's capable of, Cipher-"

"Of course I do, Fordsy, I invented her! Every line of Natashoggoth's DNA, every quirk of her power and ability, was designed by yours truly- and believe me, you have no idea how long I had to wait until a cosmically perfect vessel was also such a colossal dumbass that they'd fall for letting Nat rebirth through them! Your wifey, Ford, is _literally_ one in a trillion!" Bill tilts- no, Ford realizes, scrabbling for purchase, _Ripley_ tilts, and something huge and flaming hurls past them, crashing into a faceless, bellowing mountainside. Ford sees an arm- scarred, enormous, unmistakably her's- clench a fist around the walking stick, horrifying wounds visible in her flesh. Several of the worse burns are weeping a dark, junebug-iridescent ooze.

"I mean," Bill whispers, suddenly at Ford's ear. "You don't think that's blood she's bleeding, do you?"

"Shut the fuck up," Ford snaps, looking down Ripley's back- just inside the hood, close enough to make out as his twin but too far to read his expression, Stan appears to be climbing up the sweater. Stan looks up at him and Ford makes a quick decision and lets go of Ripley's sweater, dragging his fingers down the thick yarn just in case he needs to catch himself short.

He gets just close enough to realize that Stan does not want him to do this before colliding with his brother, sending them both crashing down into the hood with a stream of curses.

"Steamed clams on a cracker, Ford!" Stan swears once they're no longer moving- nearby, Ford can see Morty mouthing the words 'steamed clams on a cracker' at his sister. "A little warning next time, maybe? The only thing preventing me from breakin' a hip just now is that the landing was so soft! Thanks, Mabel," he adds, pointing at their beaming niece. Mabel and Dipper seem to be having a small amount of difficulty making their way through the knitted environment, but only a little bit- soon enough, they're both practically on top of him, squeezing his midsection until he gives them both a light squeeze and a pat on the head. Only then do they release him enough to take in a deep breath and speak.

"I didn't think I'd run into you, Stanley, I assumed you'd see me coming and move," Ford huffs, dusting himself off with shaking hands. "I take it Ripley's, uh- size expansion is your doing, Rick?"

"Nope, that was us," Mabel cheers, and Dipper grins sheepishly.

"We found a way to use those size-changing crystals in the forest that you wrote about, Grunkle Ford," he explains, and a small- very small, too small to be any comfort in the end- wave of relief goes through him. The size thing, at least, is reversible using normal, natural means.

Well. Natural for here.

"How, uh... how are you guys okay back here?" Ford asks to fill the time, his mind racing. "It's something of a ruckus out there-"

"Aunt Ripley's anti-unreality barrier c-covers the entire inside of the hood, and at this thickness the yarn will probably protect us from most physical attacks- long as we don't get a direct hit from something physical, we'd be fine," Morty explains brightly.

"Did- that-" Ford gapes at him, momentarily distracted. "You kids- you do sound pretty sure about that, but, uh, Ripley is also engaged in an intense battle with three of Bill's minions, one of them is bound to hit her in the back at some point?"

Morty opens his mouth and closes it, looking crestfallen.

"That, uh- Bilbo's supposed to be the one fighting her," Summer says, after a moment. "There's a plan."

"Morty's really smart and it's a really good plan," Mabel adds stoutly, crossing her arms.

"I don't doubt that it is," Ford sighs, massaging his sinuses under his glasses. "I'm extremely glad to see all of you, by the way. I just-"

The hood shakes and goes sideways, and it hits them all at once.

"She's falling! We need to get out of here, if she lands on her back we're certainly going to die!" Ford snaps, grabbing onto Rick's arm.

"She knows we're here, she's not gonna let herself squish us!" Stan replies, but one look at Rick confirms that he, too, shares Ford's doubts that she could prevent that kind of accident.

"Look, the p-plan wasn't to stick around here indefinitely- if S-Savage is stuck here for a while fighting, we have an alternate Step Two that we can use," Rick says brusquely, readying his portal gun.

"What was Step One?" Ford asks, and Rick gestures at their surroundings. "Ah. R-right. So we proceed to Step Two-B."

"Step Two-A is us rescuing the townsfolk while Bill's distracted, but if he's not distracted, then-" Stan says uncertainly, and Summer gives him a thumbs' up.

"Leave it to us, Mr. Pines," she says cheerfully. She brandishes a long cylinder- for a second Ford thinks, horrified, that Ripley gave the kids her portal sword, before he realizes that no, it's just a normal flashlight with a crystal tied the lens. Dipper shucks off his backpack, handing that over as well- it looks heavy, when Rick huffs and hands it off to Stan.

"You sure you don't want to keep this, kid?" Stan asks, and Dipper shakes his head.

"No, the stuff in there isn't supposed to be shrunk or grown or anything, remember?" he says, which is _extremely alarming_ , but the other adults seem to... accept this.

"Alright, Grandpa Rick, you know what to do!" Summer says brightly.

"I c-can't believe I'm doing this," Rick mutters, turning the light on the kids- Ford knows what the crystals can do, of course, but it's still startling to see them shrink down to coin-size.

"What part of the plan is that?" Ford asks, and Rick sighs, catching the kids up and handing them to Stan- who, after a moment, hands them to Ford. "Hey! Why am I the one carrying-"

"You're the one with the most and, uh, probably cleanest pockets, bro," Stan says, eyeing him with a small frown as he stuffs them unceremoniously into one of the pockets that zip shut. "Hey- look, you're safe now, alright? We got this thing handled, bro. Try... try not to worry."

"I'm not worried," Ford says, and both of the old men beside him give him incredulous looks. "I'm not _visibly_ worried!"

"Wh-what's to be worried about, it's just the f-fucking apocalypse," Rick mutters, dialing something on his portal gun.

"And I'm not worried, except to ask what you're doing with your portal gun, Rick?" Ford deflects, and Stan raises both eyebrows at him. "Also, you might not be aware, but we still seem to be on the way down!"

"Look, if the kids are secure-" Rick says, and Ford pats his pocket to a chorus of indignant squeaks. "Then let's g-go. We didn't want to portal them in big-sized in case it's fucked up in there."

"In the- the pyramid?" Ford asks, and Rick rolls his eyes at him, shooting a lime-green portal open.

"Keep up, Pines," he snaps, before jumping through.

"Come on," Stan says tightly, and- after a second of definite vertigo, and the realization that Ripley might think they've already gone on to Step Two- Ford grasps his hand and jumps through with him.

Ford tenses- sure enough, it looks a lot like what he saw of the inside of Bill's pyramid just moments ago, but with one horrifying difference- in here, there is a massive throne, big enough that Ripley could comfortably sit on it if she so chose, and it is quite visibly built up of agonized-looking statues of every missing townsperson. Ford exhales slowly, and after a moment realizes that he's still tightly clutching his brother's hand.

"Sorry," he murmurs, letting go.

"Don't be," Stan says faintly, staring wide-eyed at Bill's monument to human torment. "How, uh... how do we fix this?"

"Killing Cipher would d-do it," Rick says, glancing over at them. "I-is that even on the table anymore?"

"Well, if anybody could, it- it would be this family," Ford sighs. "We... you know what, we should try to focus on evacuation rather than curing this group for right now. Rick, if you don't mind?" he asks, gesturing at the size-changing flashlight. Rick nods brusquely, turning the shrink ray on the stack of Bill's victims.

"Hey, Ford, you've been... you know, mopey," Stan says quietly, gingerly putting a hand on his shoulder. "Thought you'd be happier to see your big badass monster wife, you know?"

"I am _very_ happy to see her," Ford says firmly, then sighs. "Stan, it's- just-"

"What?" Stan asks quietly.

"This... demon infestation, uh, problem," he says, and Stan's eyebrows crawl upwards. "Just! I'm... concerned, after everything that's happened, after what Bill's threatened, I know it's- ridiculous, because Bill lies, but-" He swallows, looking down. "In every lie is a grain of truth, Stanley. Turning her into a weapon against us at the last minute is exactly what he would-"

"I didn't expect this baloney from you!" Stan sighs loudly, grabbing Ford's shoulders. "Listen, you two are way too much alike, you know that? How you ever survived together without imploding or somethin' is beyond me, Poindexter-"

"I'm sure there's no need to be rude," Ford says archly, and Stan huffs a noise that would have been a laugh in happier times.

"Rude, he calls me. Alright, buster, listen- I had to tell her this and now I guess I gotta tell you this, huh? I've been in her mind before, I been in her mind _today_ , and even if I hadn't, I know what this idiot Cipher's tryin' to pull. He thinks because you believe that he's as strong and old an' smart as he says he is, that he's got the upper hand, that he's pullin' all our strings. You know it's only that he wants you to think that, right? He doesn't have to know everything- he just knows that once you're convinced, you can't even see that something else _might_ be right. He just has to tell you what he wants you to do and you do it. Because you're usually a genius, so when you're stupid you don't even know it."

Ford winces, but Stan's still smiling at him. "Sounds familiar."

"You better believe it," Stan says, grinning wider. "Now, I mean, yeah, it's sounding like between whatever's going on in her head and whatever this triangle's been feedin' ya, you're supposed to come away from this _scared_ of Ripley "Can't Remember The Rules To Poker And Once Ate A Can Of Expired Olives Because She Was Bored" Savage. He wants you to be ready ta bench your best asset in the fight against him, and he's bankin' on the fact that you're so scared of something bad happening to her that you're ready to believe it's _gonna_ happen. And it ain't a fudgin' coincidence that both your respective demons are plantin' the same idea in your heads- that she's some kinda monster now, that the bad stuff that's happened to her makes her somehow, fundamentally not-her."

Ford reaches over- Stan flinches momentarily but straightens up, and after a slight hesitation Ford puts his hand against the back of Stan's neck, touching foreheads over the rims of their glasses.

"You think I'm being silly, right, Stan?" he asks, and Stan does laugh this time.

"I think you're always silly, you doofus. But this time, specifically, about this? Yes. Ripley could turn into forty feet of slime and teeth and it wouldn't change the fact that it's still Ripley, whatever the shape of her is. Bill's tryin' to convince you that Ripley's been demonified, and in all honesty? The only thing that really happened is that that dumb shitty demon got Weatherwaxed."

"I-" Ford pulls back, blinking. "Is- is this a new slang or something, Stan? I don't-"

"Oh, jeez. No, Ford, it's- look, between the two of you, you have a hell of a lot of reading to catch up on, let me just put it that way," Stan says finally. "But- look. You know what I meant, yeah?"

"You know... I think I actually do," Ford admits, and Stan claps him on the shoulder.

"Right. Let's smuggle the population of the town out of here so we can get to Part Three."

"Shouldn't we unshrink the kids? They're really getting rowdy in there," Ford says, glancing down at his pocket.

"Eh, sure. We'll just shrink'em again if we run into any problems we can't fight our way outta," Stan says, shrugging. "Not like all this shrinkin' and growin' is bad for 'em. Hey, Rick, you done?"

"Just about," Rick calls back, gingerly lifting petrified townsfolk the size of chesspieces into a pocket- presumably because they won't be affected by how dirty or not-dirty the pocket is. "Wh-what?"

"Can you unshrink the kids now?" Ford asks, and Rick nods stiffly. Ford digs them out of his coat and gently shakes them onto the floor before Rick turns the flashlight on them, returning them to their normal sizes.

"Grunkle Ford, it smells like damp cardboard and mice in there," Dipper wheezes, and Mabel adds, "Not cute little baby mice, either. Gross old musty mice."

"That's the pocket where I keep any small living thing," Ford protests faintly, and Stan snorts, handing Dipper's backpack over to the kids.

"Oh, good," Dipper says, peeking inside. "The timer's still working, at least! Alright, Grunkle Ford, where's the best place to set this up?"

Ford stares at the Reality Bomb in Dipper's hands, turning and giving Rick a terrified little squeak in lieu of questioning how a miniaturized version of his anti-chaos weapon- which, while a potent counter to Bill's powers, is still, also, a _literal_ bomb- came to be in the possession of this child.

"H-hey, waste not, right?" Rick asks. Ford thinks if he wasn't already running on pure adrenaline and determination that he might faint.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripley's back hits the mountainside with a painful _whuff_ \- for a moment she panics, and panics because she isn't sure why she's panicking, before she remembers all at once why she's been trying to keep the fight away from her back.

No. It's fine. They're fine, she tells herself sternly, scrabbling for her walking stick and dislodging huge swaths of forest and several boulders as she does. If it wasn't fine there'd be a lot of squishy moistness down her back right now, so it's fine. Everything's perfect. Everything's fi-

"So what're you supposed to be, anyway?" Pyronica chirps, landing heavily on Ripley's stomach and knocking the wind out of her again. A hand wreathed in bright blue fire caresses the side of Ripley's face and neck, and she shoves her away, gasping.

"Fuh-" Ripley pants, shakily getting to her knees. "Fuckoff. Fuck- fuck."

"Yeah, no, I don't think that's why you were made, Sis," Pyronica says, and laughs obnoxiously. Ripley glares- despite visible bruising on her face and body, nothing she's done seems to have really _hurt_ Pyronica any. Still- it also doesn't really seem like the demon is actively trying to hurt her, either, beyond play-fighting the way she and Rick used to, back at Hyde's.

"I wasn't made to be anything, I wasn't _made_ ," Ripley tells her, and Pyronica rolls her great, single eye at her. "If anything- if anybody made me, it was me, making _myself_ from the ground up."

"You know what I mean!" she huffs, flames jetting out through her fangs. "Not this melodramatic stuff, alright? Like- Xanthar over there, he's the Unrelenting Inhumanity. Paci-Fire is the Childlike Destroyer. Sometimes Bossman's all poetic like that when he makes us, and sometimes he's literal- like how Grinderella is kinda literally the personification of Bill's mouth. We gotta figure out what we're gonna call you, and 'Slimer' was taken."

"Sounds gross," Ripley says- it was sort of like this, sometimes, the way Nat would almost seem like she forgot that she just wanted to hurt Ripley. She knows it's got to be some kind of trick but she's not going to say no to taking a moment to catch her breath. "So what are you supposed to be, then?"

"Widdle ol' me?" Pyronica replies, blue-hot flames arcing from hand to hand. "I'm the avatar of Bill's fire!"

"So- so literal and poetical, huh?" Ripley asks, and she laughs again, looking a little surprised. "So what, is- is he like your dad or- what? Exactly?"

"I don't- I don't think he's my-" Pyronica blinks, taking a step back as Ripley pulls herself to her feet. "I don't- no, no, he's not my- I don't have a dad, I was- I was made to be this. I was born this. I was made."

"I mean, full offense, but you just- you just told me you were something else, first, that- that you used to be like me before you got more... like that," Ripley says, waving an arm- which, uh, doesn't look good, either, because everywhere that she's been hurt bad enough to bleed doesn't seem to know what blood looks like, and the stains on her sweater look iridescent and sticky. "You said I'm goin' through the same you y'all did. So were you turned into this or were you always this? Which is it?"

"I don't- I don't have to answer to _you_ , Sis," she snaps, and there's no real heat behind it when she punches Ripley in the chest- well, there is heat, because the hand Pyronica uses is on fire. But it's a weak hit, and Ripley barely staggers at all against it, and it's not hard to grab Pyronica's wrist and ignore the burning pain in her hands. If she could handle it when she was dealing with Nat, she can handle it now.

"Are you like me, Ronnie?" she tries, and Pyronica flinches visibly. "Was there somebody else first? Somebody he had to get rid of so that you wouldn't remember bein' them?"

"You're not gonna accomplish anything," the demoness snaps, clawing Ripley's scorched hands off of her. "Don't you get it? Everybody fights it, and everybody gives in, and everybody does the kinda stuff some goody-two-shoes like you would be scared to admit doin', and we _like_ it. And _you're_ gonna like it, too."

"Says you," Ripley points out. "But not a damn one of you is the boss of me, and you know what? I think that's worse, isn't it? You don't like that he can't control me and never will, because- because maybe it's makin' you wonder how come he's controlled you all the time, then."

"No, I'm not!" Pyronica protests hotly, visibly flustered. "I mean- no I don't! I mean, he's not controlling me, I just- he's the Boss, I just-"

"Hey, uh- you know," Ripley says, pitching her voice a little softer. Her grip on her walking stick is a little firmer than the screaming pain in her hands and arms would like. She just... she just has to push through it. "Look, you want out of this bullshit circus, Ronnie? You don't seem like an asshole or anything, and if you need help, just say the word, okay? It doesn't have to look like this. It can just be you figurin' your shit out, away from Bill, away from all that-"

"I-" Pyronica hesitates, taking another step back. She's off balance just for a second, which is really all the time Ripley needs to sweep her legs out from under her and knock her on her ass. "You!"

"Yeah, me," Ripley says, grinning. "You can't say you didn't expect it, can ya? But look- in all seriousness, I meant it when I said-"

She doesn't have a chance to extend her offer a second time. There is a flash of green on the forest floor- one of Rick's portals, too close for Ripley's comfort- and there is a huge explosion in the pyramid itself, flashing darkness- it takes Ripley a second to realize no, that's not it at all. There is a wind whipping around her, tossing her loose hair even at her size, but instead of throwing off beams of unnatural dark light it's ripping holes in the shell of the chaos around them, showing the sky- the true sky, an Earthling night. Polaris twinkles once overhead before the slimy iridescence overrides it once more. Something skids past as the openings all simmer shut, too fast to be tracked, and Ripley feels-

-not good, not bad, but a sort of anticipation. For a second, just before the- streak of light? Shooting star?- whatever it was flew past, the stars were familiar, but different. It takes her a second to try to figure out where she saw stars like that before, though she's sure she'd figure it out, given enough time. She feels... warm. Even the pain and weariness stretching from joint to joint feels like it's trembling on the verge of rest and healing. It feels like going home, the way meeting Stan and the kids- and then Soos and Tyler and Tate and Fidds and Wendy and Abuelita- felt. The way waking up next to Ford feels.

There is an almost beautiful golden glow behind her, washing the landscape in sunset colors.

"Boss, I-" Pyronica starts, panicked, and that's as much of a warning as Ripley gets.

"I leave you four to talk it out for ten minutes," the voice is soft and just next to Ripley's ear, and for a second- a horrible second, a stupid second- she thinks Bill's small, hovering at her shoulder, maybe still pestering Ford. She barely has time to turn towards him before she realizes that no, he's as big as she is- bigger- and his voice becomes the screech of a hundred different malfunctioning machines. " **It's like you kids are _trying_ to make me mad!** "

The sheer volume knocks Ripley back and she cowers, her hands clamped against her ears, something hot and wet streaming down out of them. She looks back at Pyronica- she's not sure why, she doesn't know if she could think of an answer to that one if she tried- and she thinks the big, pink fire demon looks scared.

" **Back in the toybox until the next round** ," Bill thunders, and there's a whiplike snap of his inky fingers, and something in the material of the air rips open, the way it did over the Swap Meet, Sparky lit up at the end of a pallid, grinning Tate's outstretched arm. For a moment she can see the darkness peppered with squamous points of light and color beyond, the place that Ford had called the Nightmare Realm- and clutching onto the unconscious Xanthar's side, Pyronica looks, for just a moment, terrified.

The wind rushes past again, bricks and debris from the severely damaged floating pyramid drifting upwards, and the three enormous demons are sucked through- Paci-Fire and Xanthar in silence, Pyronica with a squeal that could either be pleading or rage.

"Next round, Buttercup?" Ripley taunts, her mind racing- surely her family got out from underfoot, surely they're in Stan's car together, surely they're speeding towards the next rendezvous point, all according to plan, she hopes, she hopes- as she broadens her stance a little, bares as many sets of teeth as she can think of. "Sounds like you're not all that sure this is gonna work out, huh? You gonna try waitin' around for another bazillion years for some other sucker to try to summon you so you can destroy the world when there's less _us_ to deal with?"

" **The fact that you still think this is about destroying your puny planet makes me wonder _what_ that man _sees_ in you** ," Bill huffs, and Ripley bristles defensively. " **I mean, if I had to venture a guess-** "

A single arm, needle-thin and void black, shoots out of the plane of Bill's "front" side, impaling her high on her chest- not my heart, though, she thinks frantically, not the right place, not the right side, and anyway I've been monsterfied, this won't kill me, this won't kill me.

" **-I'd guess it really is because he needed a replacement for his moronic twin** ," Bill says casually, and Ripley's teeth all snap shut, fury surging through her veins. " **I mean, he's always needed someone _stupid_ to stand next to him, so he could feel smarter than something-** "

"Shut _up_!" Ripley says, shuddering as she gets closer- is Bill getting smaller? Must be, because she's taller now, and broader, and he looks like ~~_prey prey prey_ ~~ something small enough to catch ~~and eat and eat and eat~~ and is that fear? Is that what flickers in that enormous eye of his? Or is that mockery, is he just yanking her around so he can trick her into stepping on her family?

No. No. No. She can't hope that they're safe. She has to believe they're safe. It's good. It's better that they're gone. It's better that they're safe, that they can't see this, that they can't see her. She has to wait for the signal, so she can know when to head back to the Shack, she just has to wait this out, her family will get there first and they said she'll know the signal when she sees it, whatever it is-

" **-and now he's got those stupid, dopey little brats hanging around now, he's never gonna need you again,** " Bill taunts, another arm stabbing out from his front and into her body- into her gut, tearing something open, and instead of the burning agony that flares up through her from the wound she finds herself overwhelmingly distracted by the sudden gaping emptiness as something hot and wet pours down onto her feet, and it's not pain at all, it's _hunger_ , when's the last time she ate? Before all this, surely, but even then, dancing in every corner, always one step away from her thoughts, years of hunger, decades of it.

Someone's guts are spread across the forest floor and Ripley's mouths start watering at the sight of it.

Her hand slips off the sharp thing impaling her chest. Oh, that's alright, though, isn't it? It's a small thing, more of a nuisance than anything else, and it can't hurt her much. Once she's eaten (not full, never full, never sated, never finished) she can try to focus on the silly thing that thinks it can hurt her. But later. Will the sharp things in her chest and stomach let her reach down, grab a handful of that fresh food lying around? Maybe, maybe-

"You know," the thing whispers, a familiar thing, a name that she knows, a name that she suddenly remembers that she hates, even stronger and more vivid than her agonizing hunger. Him. _Bill_. "We can start the whole thing back up again if you wanna. That whole Our Lady Of Eternal Devouring stuff- you just need to roll around with a nun or two to get that game started, the cults practically built themselves. Whaddya say? Shooting Star looks like she'd be a fun first priestess, and we already know she's strong enough to overpower and sacrifice Pine Tr-"

She punches her hands into an eye the size of her head-

_you are so close, one sword. you're almost there to becoming one of us, don't you see?_

and _squeezes_ and there are teeth closing in on her hands and arms, she can't afford to let go, and there is a _pop_ and a rush of hellish shrieking and she pulls until something tears loose

_be yourself be the purest you jump in and join us_

and there is a roaring in her ears that has nothing to do with the agonized flailing of the glowing triangle, her hands are spasming around the tattered ruin of whatever that thing's eye had been made of, and she knows she has to keep her shit together, she has to, she must, but God, it's so hard when everything is happening all at once like this.

"You shoulda left the kids out of it," she growls, and it doesn't even sound like herself to her own ears, now. She opens her mouth and closes it with a clack- she wanted to say something fun, something funny, something to tell Ford about later, but she can't even think of anything now, she's too hungry for that, for comedy, for words. She doesn't even think there's going to _be_ a later if she doesn't get something to **eat** , if she doesn't eat something **right now** , and there's a smell- raw, powerful, nourishing, _good_ -

there's food everywhere, and there's food in her hands, and she lowers her face and tears into it, and it's _good_

and it's gone, too quickly, and there's more food, and she grabs it up, desperate to get it before someone else takes it away, and it's not as good but there's more of it, and there was something she had to do and she could do it if she wasn't so ravenously hungry, if it didn't hurt so bad to be hungry, if it didn't feel like a good idea to try to make that hunger go away by feeding some of the other mouths on her, see if that helps

and it sort of does help, but now there's a problem, and the problem is that there's nothing else around, nothing safe to eat except for the screaming light monster, there are things and she knows they're there but they're not for eating, she knows it more than she knows herself, she knows it more than she knows the agony of starvation, there are things and they're not for eating, she has to protect them, at all costs, no matter what

she throws her head back and howls, half to drown out the sound of the golden light monster, and in the distance- but not so far that she can't see it, that she can't want it- there is a pillar of fire, piercing existence a few miles out, and she knows, now, more than anything, that she's got to go there, and things will be better, somehow, if she goes

and lurching, dragging something of herself along, vision tunneled to the needle of flame before her, she goes.


	8. Under The Milky Way

"Is this going to hurt?" John asks, and Hyde fixes him with a deadpan stare, his remaining eye alight with what John really, really hopes is a long-buried sense of humor. "Is- is it going to be quick?"

"Probably yes to both," Rick mutters, sounding distracted as he does something to a computer panel wired up to stone slab- well, he _would_ be distracted. John had insisted on telling him about his sister, and even though Rick was initially resistant to the idea of his friend and former housemate being an alternate universe and adult version of his baby sister, Hyde'd backed him up enough to convince the man. John supposes he's still debating whether or not he should go and check on her- according to Hyde, he'd left her somewhere safe, but John can't imagine wanting to leave that to chance now, knowing how easy it really is to lose track of her out in the multiverse.

He doesn't want to _dislike_ Rick- well, this Rick, who's only been helpful- but it's hard to like him after knowing that he can't decide to put this life of hermitage away in order to see his Beatriz.

He supposes it's none of his business. He supposes that Hyde would have done something if he thought that Hermit Rick's sister was in any kind of danger. He supposes he's going to have to trust that this whole thing will bring him closer to home.

He sighs. "Well... I'm ready when you are, Hyde."

"We... have to wait," Hyde says, perplexed. John sits up, ready to protest, and Hyde holds up his prosthetic hand to calm him down. "The locational reality anchors attached to her specific signature are blocked, John. This- is unideal, although it does point to her being currently alive."

"What? W-why?" Rick asks, glancing up, dark eyes wide with worry.

"She is located inside a bubble of intense unreality," Hyde murmurs, and John's brow furrows. "She is located in the heart of an apocalypse."

After a beat, John offers a weak, "That's my girl."

Neither Hyde nor Rick look amused. John's pretty sure they're just not very funny people. Bea- or, well, Ripley, he guesses he has to get used to calling her the new name- would have thought it was funny, though.

"John, this is a matter of grave seriousness," Hyde says sternly. John has to try very hard not to mentally demand Hyde's telepathic spider gods quit eavesdropping on his thoughts. "There is a nigh-impermeable barrier around the chaos energies surrounding her- in all likelihood, this is the creature Cipher's doing. If he succeeds in subverting that universe to his will, there is no universe anywhere that will be safe from him."

"What do you mean?" John asks, frowning. "Wait, so- so you _can't_ send me there, or it's too dangerous to send me there?"

"It's too-" Hyde starts, and at the look on John's face he stops. "There _is_ no such thing as _too dangerous_ to you, when it comes to this. I think I understand the urge, if not the... reasoning behind it. If I do not send you, the odds of Cipher succeeding in his task remain the same, and the odds of her dying at his hands remain the same. And if I do not send you, and he succeeds, you may be able to survive months or even years before this reality is devoured by him. But you would rather die in the attempt to stop this than live here."

"Well, yeah," John says quietly. "That's _my_ girl."

Rick won't meet his eyes. He supposes he doesn't have to guess how this subject must feel to the man, even a man who _didn't_ abandon a teenager to twist in the wind back home.

"Hyde, what does- what does success look like, for Cipher?" John asks, and when he tilts his head John hastily adds, "in order to do this. In order to succeed and use her universe to end the other universes. I can't try to stop it if I don't know what it... what it looks like, right?"

"Do you know what the chaos goddess did to her?" Hyde asks slowly. "What it tried to do to her?"

John doesn't know- doesn't know if he wants to. He remembers something, many-eyed and many-tongued, torturing him to try to find her, long ago. He remembers laughing at it. He remembers being furious and terrified at what something like _that thing_ would want with a warped and abused teenager. He remembers being enfolded in something crystalline and moist, and being told- later, Hyde would tell him, that thing's name was Natashoggoth, and that thing was killed by the woman that teenager had become- being told that the final test before her ascension, the final thing John would see, would be Bea Sanchez, tearing the organs from his still-living body and eating them raw. He remembers being put under the deep pit in the center of a mirrored room, and dreaming for what felt like an eternity before Hyde dug him out and carried him home. He knows that some of the old bloodstains he passed by in that dilapidated temple were her's.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know what Natashoggoth _tried_ to do, only what it succeeded in doing.

"Cipher wants to become one with the universe," Hyde says. "He wants to become one with _that_ universe, specifically. He has poured his essence into the making of it, in eons past when there was just a handful of Earths, and has a foothold in every universe that's sprung from that original timeline, but there, in that place, and in that time, he has a Chosen Vessel. What Ripley was to Natashoggoth, a mortal man- Stanford Pines- is to Cipher. There can be only one Vessel, and it can only be opened in the place of its making. Cipher must take that Vessel's place in that universe- down to his component atoms, down to the spaces in between them, down to the wisp of thought and feeling connecting him to his dreamscape, down to the tether between him and his place among all other points of light in the multiverse. Cipher must be reborn, overwriting the Vessel's very existence in that dimension with his own, and in that rebirth he will flood all aspects of that reality. For all intents and purposes, Cipher will become that reality. It will be an extremely painful experience as every living and unliving denizen of that dimension is subsumed into Cipher's being."

Hyde's voice trails off. "This is likely the only thing that may have saved her from Natashoggoth. They weren't on an Earth, and they weren't in Dimension 46*\\. It's doubtful that Natashoggoth knew that she'd have to be home in order to do what she wanted, because when Ripley laid a trap for her- here, actually, in an earlier era- she walked right into it. But Cipher has been chasing Pines home for decades. There's no doubt that he knows the importance of forcing this to happen in the right place."

"So- so B- so Ripley knows, at least, what kind of- what kind of danger they're in, though," John says, and Hyde and Rick exchange glances. "You- wouldn't have sent her off to face that thing without telling her, right?"

"Well... sh-she woulda psyched herself out if she thought the existence of all realities could hinge on her success," Rick says meekly. "A-although, uh, now that I know that's- that she's technically my sister, I uh, I uh, I think I'm kinda- I think I see why you'd be m-mad, and, well-"

"Shut the fuck up," John says through his teeth.

"It wasn't necessary information," Hyde says flatly. "If she had asked- as you yourself have asked- then I would have told her this. But Rick is correct. Her anxiety over the specter of failure would have prevented her from thinking clearly during her battle, and even her failure would not have resulted in the end of the multiverse, because she pursued it there. She must know that she successfully killed a god, John, but she didn't need to know that she'd save the multiverse with that success."

"Seems like the kind of thing she should know!" John snaps. "Seems a hell of a lot like the kind of thing she'd love to know!"

"Well," Hyde says dryly, "assuming the two of you live past your meeting and through the end of Cipher's latest attempt- maybe you can be the one to share this with her."

"Yeah, I-" John pauses. " _Latest_ attempt? He's done this before?"

"Yes. Of course," Hyde says. "He has a very large number of Stanford Pineses to work with, John. Even if he fails once, he can just learn from that mistake and reset himself to a timeline where he has yet to fail. Even if you succeed now, there's no reason to believe he won't succeed later, or concurrently, in some other dimension where his presence has not been scoured from the fabric of that reality."

"But it's always Stanford Pines, though?" John asks, after a moment. "And it's always- for Natashoggoth, it's always her?"

Hyde shrugs. "These things invest themselves in their Vessel's cosmology early on, when there are fewer universes to choose from. But yes. In every dimension where Bill Cipher's existence has shaped the very nature of that Earth, there is some equivalent to Stanford Pines who is that universe's sole Vessel. And, presumably, the same can be said of all universes where Natashoggoth has dipped her fingers into the lives of mortals. I can only offer conjecture."

"Great," John says, but- well, actually, he means it. "Honestly, that- you know what? That's good. Because Cipher's been stopped before. I feel pretty good about our chances of doing it again."

"As you say," Hyde acknowledges. "If you-"

He stops, tilting his head to one side- with a lurch John realizes it's more than that, he's pointing the hole in his head where an eye used to be at the stars, the spiders that live somewhere between his bones chittering loudly, like the screaming of cicadas on a hot evening.

"H-hey, you okay?" Rick says shakily, and Hyde's head snaps up, a faint glow emanating from the scar tissue behind his eyepatch.

"A hole in the barrier has been pierced. It's time for you to go," he says, in the voice of a thousand vermin gods. John doesn't have time to react before Hyde's hand moves-

-there's a streaking of darkness and too-bright light around him, and John realizes, dazzled, that it's starlight, whizzing past. The Foundation portals were never this beautiful. The alien portals he and Bea stepped through on their journey together were never this beautiful. Very few things-

_her face near-angelic in her sleep, looking for once like the child she was, like the child he'd been looking for all those years_

-have ever been as beautiful as being sent home by Hyde.

There is a sense of movement, suddenly. There are mountains- and next to them, below his path, huge beings, only vaguely human-shaped- and then there is a forest and then there is a house hurtling way too quickly at him.

And then there is pressure under his booted feet, the earth gently rising to meet him, a soft wind that still smells like the clean stone of Hyde's temple at his back.

John takes a step forward, then another. There's a door. He reaches out to open it and a woman his age opens it first, blue eyes round with shock and dawning familiarity.

"Oh- uh- _hey_! Long- long time no-" John starts, and Jessenia Pines punches him in the jaw, _hard_.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Hey, Mister- Pines?" a coltish redhead says uncertainly, and Shermie nods at her- she looks quite a bit like the youngster who used to work for Stan's shop, the last time Shermie'd come for a visit, but in all likelihood she can't be much older than Morty is. She's a bit banged up but otherwise looks pretty rested and well-fed, interestingly. "The lady in the labcoat said they needed your help over with what her and Gideon are doing. I can take over that, uh- that thing, I guess," she adds casually, as if he hadn't noticed the way her eyes had lit up when she'd come onto the back porch and seen the Banality Cannon for herself.

"You think you could do that, Miss?" he asks mildly, and before she opens her mouth to respond they both hear an anguished howl from the front of the house.

_"Johnathan Demosthenes Savage, you absolute bastard!"_

Shermie practically falls out of his lawn chair, scrambling to his feet. "Yeah, you know what, sure, just keep an eye on it, kid, don't shoot it if there's nothin' approachin', I gotta- I gotta go take care of-"

"Sweet!" the teenager whoops, and Shermie, excited as he is, takes a moment to reflect on what he just said.

"You know what, kiddo, this isn't the time to have unsupervised access to a beam rifle," he says, not even trying to sound apologetic as he reaches over and pulls out the activation key, shoving it into his pocket. "I'll put this back in when I get back, or if a trained adult comes back-"

"Awww," he hears her complain, but she's already behind him as he races back through the house. The front door's already open, and Jessie's standing in it, arms wrapped around John's shaking frame, and he's older and grayer but that's _absolutely_ John, arms squishing Jessie to his chest as he sobs into her shoulder.

"Hey!" Shermie barks, and by the time they both look up he's already barrelled into them, arms locked around them both. "Now? Now?! Of all damn times? Of all damn places?!"

"I _missed_ you guys," John says, his breath hitching inelegantly. "I missed you guys so much, you don't even- how are you here? _How_ are you here, now? I don't-"

"Us!? How are _you_ here, our Stanley lives here!" Jessie protests, lightly hitting their chests. "Hey, you two, quit smotherin' the shortstack here, I can't get any air between ya."

"Sorry, angelfish," Shermie breathes out, taking a step back to clean his glasses and wipe his eyes. "But- seriously, John! Seriously! Seriously? Is this really you or is it some kinda, I dunno, weird demon triangle thing?"

"I'm me, Sherm, I just- you know, Jessie thought the same thing, ahah, but, uh- Sherm, I just-" John looks shakily around. "I just- I was- I was sent here to find somebody, and I- she's supposed to be _here_ , I had no idea you guys would- would- uh, hey, quick question, though, where the fuck is this?"

The door just off the main room opens, and one of the kids Dipper and Mabel are friends with- little blond kid, Pixie Something- pokes her head out, looking unnerved. "Uh, like, excuse me, but I think your maid should be fired?"

She steps through, holding a wax replica of Larry King's head in her hands, and the fact that it's struggling to jump out of her grip, gnashing its false teeth, doesn't exactly- well, no, that's still a surprise to Shermie, come to think of it, but John- Professional Weirdness Hunter John, of all people- stops and gestures futilely at it, before giving Shermie and Jess a slightly pained look.

"You should put that thing away, sweetie, it- it belongs to Stan, whatever it is," Jessie says, and the girl nods before carrying it back into the other room.

"Hey, uh, that- that's pretty fucking weird," John says, and Shermie shrugs at him.

"It's been a weird weekend," he offers. "You know you just got here in the middle of an apocalypse, actually, so-"

"Oh, no, yeah, I know, I- I knew that before I came, I just- I didn't expect to see you two in the middle of it all, or, uh- handling it this well," John says, scrubbing a hand back over his head. Now that the adrenaline is fading a little Shermie can notice that he looks- well, not gaunt, but certainly like he's lost too much of the muscle John's employers had expected of him, back in the day. Shermie has a moment to think that he cannot _believe_ that their dear old friend has finally returned after eighteen long years apart, before he mentally reviews that thought, his mouth twisting around his disbelief.

"Hey, you- you said you came here lookin' for somebody specific-" Jessie starts, exchanging a look with Shermie.

"Uh, yeah, so- you know, this is going to sound really weird, I don't like it, but uh- one of your brothers is married to my-" John pauses, looking flustered. "This- this kid I- I guess she's an adult now, but-"

"This is fucking bananas!" Shermie marvels, and Jessie shakes a finger at him. "Cuddlefish, it's the apocalypse, it won't kill the kids to learn a swear or two."

"She hit me!" John interjects, pointing at his face. "She thought I was some kind of triangle demon and instead of asking she hit me!"

"I'm very sorry that I hit you, Johnny," Jess says primly. "Now, I feel like- well- there's been all kinds of monsters and weirdness here, darlin', but at some point we gotta- we're gonna have to trade notes on what in the heck has been goin' on here-"

"Oh, agreed, definitely, but, uh, after the apocalypse, it's actually- really urgent we don't let some stuff happen," John says, drawing his hands down his face. "Alright, no, okay, first, I just- I need to see that she's okay, uh, look, there's- she's about my height, blondish hair-"

"Big scars, a lil long in the nose, has the same goofy sense of humor you do?" Shermie finishes, and John stops, eyes bright and round. "How- how do _you_ know Ripley Sav-" Shermie stops, and next to John Jessie buries her face in her hand. "She- she's been usin' your last name all this time and I _just now_ figured that out?"

"It's been a _long_ weekend, honey," Jessie giggles, muffled by her palm. "Oh, heaven help us."

"But you know her!" John says, grabbing Shermie's hands in his. "You _know_ her! And- and she's here? Safe? Where is she? I have to-"

"I- Johnny, I don't- we don't know where she is," Shermie says, his joy at seeing his friend again flagging a little. "The twins seem to think she was... in the middle of everything when this all started. Stan and Rick and the kids went off to try and rescue her, but-"

"I- I don't- okay," John says, looking hurt. "God. I need a- I need a nap. Wait- Rick? _Sanchez_?"

"Yeah, apparently there's some kinda- relationship there, I don't know-" Shermie says doubtfully.

"Brother," John and Jessie say at the same time, and exchange a glance.

"I'm not gonna be able to keep a straight face during this apocalypse if you two are constantly finishing each other's sentences, it's too funny for somethin' this serious," Shermie sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

"No promises, love, it's been eighteen years since we've been able to torture ya," Jessie says, smiling faintly. "Alright, Johnny, we- we gotta straighten some things out here, though. You knew there was an apocalypse that your, uh- your lil buddy?- was involved in, so you showed up here, alright. I'm assumin' that means you think you know a way to help, then, so- well, let's hear it."

"Well, actually," John says sheepishly. "I mean- I know the apocalypse means... we can't let Stanford Pines- which, you gotta get me up to speed on that, I thought he was fine last we talked but now it looks like he's, uh, not been fine-"

"-you're tellin' me," Shermie mutters darkly.

"-and if we let Bill Cipher possess this man, it will bring about the end of this and all other worlds," John adds, then frowns. "Ah- okay, so- your brother and, uh- and Ripley? She's only thirty-six, though, that- that's odd, isn't it? He's what, sixty, sixty-two?"

"I'm sure it's not exactly my business to try to get to the bottom of that, they were both in their thirties when they met, though?" Shermie hedges, shrugging. "How do you know about any of that, though?"

"Mutual friends," John says, sighing. "Okay. Well, if I can't see her right now, fine. You said it was the other Stan who went with her brother, though?"

"Um, well-" Shermie says, exchanging a panicky look with Jessie. "Yeah, but-"

"So- at least I can talk to your brother and figure out a way to prevent the actual for real apocalypse, though," John says, and Shermie and Jess both give him guilty looks. "What, he's- he's not dead, is he?"

"No, pumpkin, but- he's been captured by that Cipher fucker," Jessie says, wincing. "But! It's okay! Stan and Rick were gonna try to rescue him, too!"

"I just want to point out that you just said the same swear that Sherman got in trouble for," John says solemnly, rubbing the heels of his palms against his face. "Okay. Alright. First things first, we-"

"Mr. Pines!" one of the skipper kids bursts into the room, still wearing her silly, adorable t-shirt with the science alligator on it. John looks at her like he's seen a ghost. "Mr. Pines! We need you to come help us with one of the anchors, we can't get it in the right place!"

"Okay, Angel, calm down, Shermie'll come right away," Jessie says soothingly, putting her hands on Shermie and John's backs. "Sherm, who's watching the cannon?"

"Redhaired teenager we're not related to," Shermie says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry, Johnny, we're gonna have to put our reunion on hold til later-"

"No kidding! But- okay, no, a cannon?" John asks, sounding weary, sounding his age. "You- shoot, you suppose this is something I should be taking over?"

"...yeah," Shermie sighs, handing over the activation key. "Mainly it's been... real good for blastin' away anything big and scary-lookin' that comes too close."

"That's a relief," John says, then, looking worried, "but- but after that, though- we figure this out together, like, what was going on with your brother, and how come you guys are friends with Ripley, and why that kid has a t-shirt with Six Eight Two on it?"

"Yeah," Shermie says warmly, exchanging a glance with Jess. "Yeah, this- this is gonna turn out fine. We're gonna have plenty of time for that."

"Alright, then," John says, ducking in to peck Jessie and Shermie on their cheeks before dashing out of the room, only to dash right back. "Okay, so, where is that thing?"

"I'll show ya, Johnny," Jessie says, smiling.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The furry red guy with tentacles all over says his name is Devaaki.

By Ripley's reckoning, she's twenty-four. It's been five years, give or take a few blackout periods, since she lost John Savage, since she lost humanity, since she lost her _real_ name. She's not particularly strong and she's not particularly big- for a human she is, maybe, but not for most aliens. She thinks the owner of this pitfighting ring only bought her in the first place because she was pretty cheap and, well, the kinds of scavenger parties that like to come here probably find a lot of good entertainment in seeing something die a messy death.

She's not going to live to see twenty-five. She's okay with this.

Devaaki takes a few steps around her, sizing her up. Not much to see, but hey, maybe he hasn't been around a lot of humans this close up. She puts her hands on her hips, hooking her thumbs into the badly made belt holding her pants up as he comes back into view.

"[You understand my words, human?]" he asks. She nods. He watches her for a few minutes, and waves a tentacle. "[Human, does your implant translate nonverbal communication?]"

"What's that?" she asks after a moment. She totally knows what that is, though. She's just looking to make his (and everyone else's) life difficult in the short amount of time that she has.

"[Communication and cues that are not verbally expressed,]" Devaaki says. She squints at him, and he waggles his tentacle again. "[Are you capable of understanding the emotional nuance expressed by the people around you when they move certain ways, or make certain facial expressions, or emit certain patterns or pheromones?]"

"Uh, no. Nah. I mean, I can't do that with humans either, though, so," she says, before baring her teeth in a big, fake smile, mostly out of spite. "Nobody's ever thought it was worth the money to buy me the upgrade."

"[This is unacceptable,]" Devaaki says. "[Some arrangement must be made in order to prevent the kind of terrible insult you have innocently expressed with your appendages.]"

"What difference would it make?" Ripley asks, vaguely amused. "I mean, I'm just here so one of you can kill me in front of a crowd, is it gonna matter if I accidentally like... hurt somebody's feelings first?"

"[No slaughterhouse this,]" he says, although- although Ripley's pretty sure she's losing something in the translation. "[We are entertainers first. There is no entertainment if there is no drama. You will live long enough for the audience to care about your death.]"

Ripley doesn't mean to laugh- well, she doesn't mean to laugh this long or loud, anyway. She absolutely does mean to laugh in this weird red guy's face. She actually thinks she's starting to figure out that he's pissed at her when he does that particular tentacle-waggle for the third time, too.

"Dude, nobody's going to _care_ ," she sneers, rolling her eyes at him once she's got her breath back. "And I mean, seriously, why waste the money on an upgrade when I'm just gonna die soon anyway? Might as well make being a rudeass who doesn't know anything my dramatic thing. Do aliens in this dimension like to put human women in those metal bras and like, loincloths? I'd be interested in wearing one of those outfits as my last outfit, run around looking like one of those Star Wars aliens."

"[There are several words in this statement that appear to be mistranslated or out of context,]" Devaaki says, and Ripley sighs at him.

"Of course," she mutters, suddenly tired. When's the last time she's eaten? Was it last night? "Look, this assessment is pointless. I don't know any cool skills that might make me interesting to watch. I only know how to fight other humans, and really only how to fight dirty. The only way I'm not gonna die in my first fight is if the other guy throws it. Can I just go lie down or something?"

"[Show me how to fight another human, then,]" he says, gesturing at the stick on the ground next to her. It's pretty light, and has the same texture all over- she's not sure if it's supposed to be a staff or a sword, but it feels better in her hand if she holds it lightsaber-style. She gives a couple experimental swings with it, wrinkling her nose a little.

"Be better if it was shorter. Like a baseball bat," she mutters, mostly to herself. "Don't have baseball in space, do you? Yeah, forget that I said anything. With humans, you know, we're mostly around the same size, give or take, but this works even if they're bigger'n taller. You just give'em the ol' one-two. Hit somebody around here-" She swings the stick down, where a hip might be. "-you hit something hard, they probably can't move too far or fast, but you hit something soft and they just fold over, right? And when their head's down you swing again, hard enough they see stars or maybe just fall over. And then you run."

She doesn't know that she's ever done this but it feels like she might have. Devaaki does something with his face, which she isn't going to try to translate to herself.

"[Have you killed?]" he asks, and Ripley narrows her eyes.

"Yes."

"[A human?]" he persists, and she hesitates, before shaking her head.

"Just the one non-human that I know of. Two owners back. Exotic pet breeder."

Devaaki is quiet, coming a little closer than she'd like him to. "[Your grip needs improvement.]"

"My what?" she asks blankly. "My grip? What for? It's not a competition-"

One of his tentacles lashes out, slapping against her knuckles with a faint crack and-

-and-

And it's three and a half weeks til her thirteenth birthday. It's been a weird year- her brother hasn't really visited much, and when he has he's been... distant. Confused. He's been forgetting promises and details about things she's told him, but- well.

████'s an important man. A busy man. She knows she doesn't have any right to demand his attention or- or whatever, but-

-but he _promised_ he'd come visit her today. Today specifically, because their parents don't do American Thanksgiving (according to Mami, there's no Venezuelan Thanksgiving either) and she's always wanted to try one of those big brown turkeys and eat the pie and whatever else it is they have on TV today. It looks _good_ on TV. He's supposed to take her to one of the restaurants that's open today and try the Thanksgiving food.

The treehouse is stocked up on books and snacks. Most of the books have been stolen- some from the school library, some from the local library- but a couple of them are from Grandma's. All of the snacks have been stolen- the best is the loaf of Wonderbread, mostly because it's just nice and soft and tastes pretty good and it's probably pretty good for you, they put vitamins in this stuff, right? And she's gotten really good at stealing the bread without squashing any of it, so that it stays nice and fluffy. Candy is pretty good, obviously, but sometimes you gotta eat something that isn't sweet.

And she has some other important stuff up here, too. The first aid kit is open in her lap- it takes her a little while but eventually she gets the duct tape wrapped around her finger okay, and her hand doesn't hurt so bad now that she's had time to let the Admiral Nelson's work.

Her stomach does something gross and unpleasant- protesting against her drinking on an empty stomach, probably- but she doesn't want to ruin dinner. ████ will be here soon, and he'll take her to get that fancy American dinner, and he might remember to ask her what happened to her hand and if she tells him he might be able to Science it better. And even if he doesn't remember to ask, that's fine, because the main thing is that he'll be back and they'll be eating. She can wait.

She busies herself putting the first aid kit away. It's getting cold- well! It's November! It's not even really that bad, it's just that she didn't think to grab a thicker shirt or a sweater. But it's fine in just the jacket. She has a couple of towels up here, too, that's basically the same as a blanket.

It's not too hard to curl up small under a towel, ducking down so that nobody can see her through the window in the treehouse ████ built for her. Her stomach rumbles painfully at her again, so she gives in and grabs a slice of bread- and then, because the one was real good and also because she's still hungry, she grabs another. It helps settle her.

She opens a book- _Have Space Suit, Will Travel_ \- and settles in to re-read it. ████ hates Heinlein, but this will be her funny little way of showing him he shouldn't have made her wait.

She drifts off halfway through the book. She wakes up late, when the moon and the stars are out, because it's too cold to pretend she's not cold.

████ promised he'd come today, but-

-her hand hurts, her hand hurts, she's on her feet, not lying down, but-

-but he must have something important to do today. She doesn't cry or anything. She eats another slice of bread- the loaf's gettin' small now, she should steal another one- and mumbles to herself, "Th-this year m'thankful." She would have liked to tell ████ that she's thankful for him, but it wouldn't have mattered, he would have laughed at her. She's glad he didn't come. She's relieved to be alone. Maybe she can walk down to see Grandma tomorrow, maybe Grandma's real family won't be around so she can go and pretend she belongs there with her.

There's a thump on the ground

_as the stick drops to the floor \\\ as Mami hits the underside of the treehouse_

and she startles back from the tentacled red guy as he _yells up at her through the floorboards, "I know you're up there, you stupid bitch, if you're not inside in the next five minutes I'm locking the door,"_ and she hugs her hand to her chest, but the tape's gone, that's probably why it hurts, she has to keep it taped up so the bones don't move around-

-something furry and warm touches her shoulder and she flinches, looking around, but there's no wood, no books, no carefully stolen stockpile of food that was snuck up here pocketful by pocketful, there's just metal everywhere, dirty and old.

Her old name dances on the very edge of her brain and then goes. Ripley shudders, curling her arms around her midsection, staring up at Devaaki as he says something at her, but either her translator implant's not working or she just can't think straight because it's just meaningless noises.

For a moment it's almost like waking up from a dream, when you try to hold the dream for a few moments more, just to find out the rest, just to know what happened, and Ripley shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

That person is gone. That person is dead. Nobody wanted that person around except for John, and John's gone, and she's Ripley now, that name doesn't exist to anybody anymore.

"[-some sort of a fit or brain seizure?]" Devaaki is asking, and Ripley opens her eyes, looks over at him, still trying to massage a phantom pain out of her right hand. "[If medical attention is required-]"

"I'm fine," she snaps, leaning down to pick the stick back up. "It's nothing. I'm fine-"

"[This is an untrue statement,]" he says, and she can't even remotely take it anymore.

"It doesn't fucking matter!" she howls at him, her eyes burning. "Who cares! I mean number one it's not a fucking seizure or something but even if it was, like, it doesn't matter to me anyway! Either I get murdered in public or I, I dunno, some other thing, I'm not supposed to be alive either fucking way! If you guys wanted somebody healthier you shoulda paid more!"

"[You are angry,]" Devaaki says, and walks over to the wall, plucking a weapon off the mounted rack- definitely supposed to be a staff, not like the thing in her hands that might be a child-sized staff or a slightly short sword for something his size. "[Anger is better. Anger is clarity. You are stronger.]" He turns, regarding her for a moment. "[Stay angry. Use this anger. Attempt to hit me.]"

"Fuck off," she says shakily, and he raises his staff. "I don't want to fucking hit you. Fucking pervert-"

"[You probably will not be able to hit me,]" he says, and she bristles. "[I am not concerned that you might cause injury. You are a human. Humans are not known to be strong or fast or cunning enough to last for long in the ring-]"

Before he can finish she swings, and he wraps a tentacle around the stick and around her wrist, yanking the stick from her grasp.

"[Your grip is too weak,]" he says. She doesn't know if he's talking down to her but it sure fucking feels like it. "[If you were faster, and telegraphed your movements less, you might have landed a glancing blow. But even if you had, you would have lost your only weapon, and then you would be helpless to-]"

She hurls herself forward in a headbutt- too short to hit his face, but the hit lands squarely in the middle of his chest, startling him back just enough that she can pull her wrist free and tumble back from him.

"[-better. Anger is the better thing,]" he says, rubbing a circle into his chest where she hit him. "[A useful move on a naked opponent, perhaps. One who is not wearing armor. In the ring, in real combat, you just gave yourself a concussion.]"

"Who fucking cares if I have a concussion?!" she snaps, her heart hammering in her chest. He tosses the stick back at her and she catches it out of the air.

"[Use both hands,]" he says simply. "[Your grip can be improved with time, but you will not have that time before your first fight. Hold it firmly. Allow your anger its return. Attempt to hit me with that anger.]"

"You can't- you can't just turn on anger," she says, her arms and hands shaking as she holds the stick with both hands now. "This is fucking stupid."

"[You are allowed to be angry,]" Devaaki says, looking intently at her. "[A terrible thing has happened to you. Many times. You are allowed to feel anger at what has happened to you.]"

Ripley stares at him, her arms hanging slack. Something in her feels like it's been cut loose from the rest of her- it feels like her body's a size too big all over, like she's above and behind herself, like his words severed the string between her and the meat she lives in.

Ripley blinks at him and she's wearing herself again, but she still doesn't know if she can move quite yet. Devaaki, for his part, seems to consider this development.

"[You have a nearly inhuman streak,]" he says, and she swallows, sure that he means it to be a compliment, kinda. "[Not many would have thought to attack again, when unarmed and bound.]"

"Yeah," she says, feeling uncomfortably dazed. When's the last time she ate? She thinks she could stand to eat or take a nap or something.

"[You were selected because I am looking for a replacement,]" he says finally. "[You will do well in this.]"

"A replacement for what?" she asks, but he doesn't answer.

Eventually she figures it out, though.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The little boy- she knows his name is Gideon but she can't help but call him Little Boy Jan Crouch in her head- has set up a very impressive series of junkpiles around a big hole in the ground. There's less of it now, but he seemed to have been able to use the unicorn hair to tie things together- as many pairs of glasses as he could get his hands on in one pile, a hoodie jacket with a band logo and a couple of BE FRI - ST ENDS charm necklaces in another, a funny singing trout on top of Stan's folded Mackerel Lodge tapestry, something that looks suspiciously like a sweater she gave Mabel last holiday season tied around a couple of foam swords and what she deeply hopes to be an unloaded shotgun.

Her husband is helping wrangle a fallen pine sapling towards a funny-shaped aluminum Christmas tree. (Where, Jessie would like to know, did anybody find that? She suspects it's something Stan had around the place, but that only leads to more questions.)

"How we doin', team?" Jessie asks the group at large.

"Good mornin', Missus Pines," Gideon-Jan says, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. "We're about set now. At this point th'only thing we're missin' is some representation of the six-fingered man- I don't suppose you know where your brother-in-law is, wouldja Ma'am?"

"Well, on his way, most likely," Jessie says, as a rumbling wind rustles through them. Shermie glances up at her and gives a one-shouldered shrug, his hands too full for a wave. "I expect some of his things are still in the cabin, though, as far as a representation goes. D'you think-" There's a shot nearby, a beam striking out against a flock of those eyeballs with wings. Johnny's having way too much fun with that thing. "-think it's enough just to have a picture or an article of his clothing? Seems like most of this stuff isn't that special."

"Magic bein' more of an art than a science and all, ain't up to me to say if it'd work or not," he says, tucking his hanky away. "The spell's intended to work with a number of actual livin' bein's joinin' hands to banish'im, but mostly it don't seem like half those people are here, and some of those symbols could mean anybody. Only one that for sure makes sense to match up with a person's-" He pauses, hesitating the way people do here when they mean Stanford but can't erase the mental image of Stanley before speaking. "-would- would be Stan...ford? Pines? Is that right?"

"Yeah, sugar, you got it," she says, sighing. "Well, fair enough. What are the other symbols?"

"Well, there's the Spectacles, the broken- or? Mended? Heart," he says, frowning. "An elder sign variant of the all-seeing eye- that one's probably me, come to think of it-"

"Oh, so Sherm over there is, what, settin' up some kinda... forestry symbol?" she asks politely, and he nods.

"The Pine... Tree," he says, catching himself up short. "Well, ma'am, if it don't seem like a genuine intentional circumstance that your family came here, of all times, of all places!"

"I'd certainly say so!" she agrees, because- well, because there's no other way to look at the series of reunions this weekend has led to. "Alright, so what's the deal with that one-" she starts to ask, and there is a brilliant, ovoid splash of shimmering green beside them- for a moment she thinks, horrified, that it's Bill, that he's come here directly, but no. Out steps her beautiful grandchildren, and Rick's beautiful grandchildren, and Stan and Ford, thank God, and Rick, which is also good, certainly. 

But no Fiddlehead, and no Ripley, either, or any of the missing townsfolk.

"Grandma!" Mabel cries, throwing herself into Jessie's arms. Dipper cautiously follows suit, and Jess squeezes them tight, relieved beyond compare that they've come back okay, at least.

"Hey, sweetums, did- did something happen?" she asks, and the kids exchange a harrowing glance between them that would have been funny if not for the circumstances. The fact that the adults who came back with them also shot the same expression between themselves sort of both lends to and detracts from the humor.

"A lot of stuff happened, Grandma," Dipper says finally. "But we rescued the citizens! Sort of..."

"They're in my pockets!" Ford says, emptying little stone chesspieces out of his coat. "Kids, you might want to figure out a way to get everyone sized appropriately before they are returned to non-stone forms, we might lose a handful of people to panic that way-"

"We're on it, Uncle Ford," Summer says, and Dipper hands her a flashlight with a little crystal tied to one end. "How are we working on getting that thing lit, kid?"

"Well, um-" Gideon looks at Ford, distressed, then gives Jessie an admittedly irresistibly doe-eyed look. "Missus Pines, could you-?"

"Oh, sure, pumpkin-" (She catches Dipper and Mabel hissing in disgust, and Stan's disbelieving snort as Ford asks why we're trusting Gideon now, and makes a mental note to ask them about this later.) "Come along, Stanford dear."

"Oh, but-" Ford starts, and Stan chuckles nervously.

"Just do what she tells ya, Sixer, you're gonna be on the naughty list if ya don't, and that means none of her pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving," he says, and Jessie gives him a small smile.

"Now, now," she chides, and Ford- giving Stan an uncomfortable glance over his shoulder- follows her. "Alright, kiddo, where do you want us?"

"Just the Author, ma'am," Gideon says, glancing over some hand-drawn notes before pointing to an empty-looking spot next to the hole. Ford's eyes light up, and he stands there willingly as young Miss Angel scurries over and checks to make sure his unicorn-hair bracelet is intact.

"Oh, wow," Ford says brightly. "I'm glad to see you, Miss Simmons! Are those home-brewed reality-stabilizers? This is _very_ innovative, Gil- Gideon!"

"I'm aware," Gideon says, just a touch tartly. "I think that's it, I'm just gonna go over there, but we need somethin' thaumaturgically significant to light this thing up so the fire can-"

"Wait, what? Fire?" Ford asks, and Dipper, after a swift, hissing exchange with his sister, clears his throat.

"Couldn't Aunt Ripley's plasma sword work? Just to light the fire part?" he asks, and Gideon and Angel exchange curt nods.

"I believe so, Dipper! It's very important to your family, right?" she asks, and he nods, pulling it out of his backpack. "Well, it should definitely work as far as being significant and a firestarter!"

"I can't think of anything else that fits that description, yeah," Dipper says, blushing. "And we're kinda out of options, the only things I have left in here are Grunkle Ford's Journals and Aunt Ripley's jar of magic fireflies, so-"

"Oh, those," Gideon says sourly. "T'ain't nothin' but a thousand cursed undying termites that she turned into a bunch of harmless glowbugs t'spite me."

"Yeah? And what were you going to do with those?" Ford asks sharply, and Gideon goes quiet. Jessie kind of likes that mental image, though- something that had been stuck in a holding pattern of anger and pain, getting a chance to be harmless and cute and normal. She likes that her- well, sister-in-law, technically?- thought to do something like that for something else.

"It's the end of the world, honey, what do you say we let those things out of the jar so they can stretch their wings out, hm?" Jessie asks, and Dipper shrugs, opening the jar. Glowing green blooms out into the night sky, and the air around their little family is almost normal-looking in the light.

"Here goes," Angel says nervously, holding Ripley's sword out at arm's length and gingerly activating it with a solid-sounding swoosh. Gideon tosses her a torch- a stout branch wrapped around one end with something that really looks like another of Mabel's sweaters- and the girl lights it. She drops the sword to the ground, the blade whipping out of existence, and tosses the lit torch into the pit.

The pit fills with bright gold fire- over the noise of it, Jessie can hear Shermie on the other side, shrieking, "MOTHER of _PEARL-_!"

The fire rises like a tower, rises like a needle of light, a baking, cleansing heat radiating off of it as it pierces the sky-

-and off in the distance, something howls in screeching agony, and something else bellows in guttural recognition, and something huge lumbers towards the cabin, towards the brilliance of the flaming pit.

"What is this?" Ford breathes out, eyes lit up.

"The best idea any of us could think of," Jessie tells him, glancing nervously at the treeline as something heavy and rumbling approaches. "Is that- is that him?"

"It's Ripley," Ford replies distantly, and she glances at him to ask him how he knows, before one of the kids- a townie, someone who'd been helping, shrieks in horror.

It looks like some of the things Shermie's shot down today- huge, bowed over, far too many teeth, far too many glowing eyes- and it's dragging itself along by a pair of arms, burned raw and red and covered in blistering sores oozing green-black ichor. Ford pales, his hand gripping Jessie's arm.

"Sweet Sunset Sarsaparilla, what the heck is that!?" Gideon screeches, and Ford shakes his head, eyes round.

"No, no- no, she's hurt, she-"

"Oh, God, Ford, tell me that's not Ripley," Jessie says softly, and the horrified look on his face tells her everything. Jessie sucks in a breath, snapping her head towards her family, standing in shock next to the cabin. " _Stan!_ Go an' tell John not to shoot!"

Three things happen, all at once. A beam of light pours out of the cannon on the side of the house, almost in slow motion, and hits the Ripley-beast square in the side with a smell like cooking pork.

Stan, bless him, turns and books it back into the house, Rick hot on his heels.

And Summer, wheeling from her task of turning the toy-sized townsfolk into normal-sized statues, tosses Dipper the flashlight, her voice trembling only slightly. "Dipper, shrink her!"

Ripley- it has to be her, for a second the huge, horrifying creature's face solidifies, and besides all that it's still wearing her glasses, high up on what should, by rights, be her forehead- cringes, a cascading series of sawlike jaws opening as she howls in pain, as a second shot lands solidly on the side of her neck, before she shrinks too rapidly for it to follow, beaming over her before shutting off abruptly. The skin sizzles- for a moment, mercifully or not, it's just skin, no gaping maw, no eyes, just burned and bruised human skin.

The cannon doesn't shoot again, and for that Jessie's grateful, because she can't imagine how bad Johnny's going to feel to know that he shot her at all. Ford makes to move, and she grabs his arm, even though her grandbaby is already shining a light on his auntie, her monstrous form shrinking down to something manageable, human-like.

"No, baby, you have to stay," she tells him, and he looks at her like she's lost her mind. "Stanford, this is about one thing, pumpkin, this is about ending this, you can't do anything better to help her-"

"But-" Ford breathes out, and she wishes they had time, she wishes she could help more. She gives him a squeeze.

"-isn't there some kinda hoopla about you endin' that demon's reign of evil or somethin'?" she asks, and he shoots her a dumbfounded look. "This is it, buster- step up to the plate and do it!"

"Well-" he says, straightening his shoulders- she doesn't know him as well as she knows either of his brothers, probably, but _there's_ that Pines backbone she knows and loves.

"You good, honey?" she asks, and he gives her a brave little smile, one she knows intimately, decades of Shermie after the war, Shermie after his mother's death, Shermie after 'Stanley' died.

"I am, Jessenia, I- I know what I have to do," he says, and if it wasn't such a fraught situation she'd question him, question this.

"Alright, Stanford," she says, raising a hand- she means to tell him that she loves him, that this plan is surely going to work, and there is a loud whistling noise, the kind of nightmare sound she grew to fear during the Cold War, as something huge and unloving hurtles towards them.

It is no missile or hijacked plane, no _Enola Gay_ streaking in from the nightmares Jess had as a little girl.

It is that mother- _fucking_ triangle, its single eye redrimmed and glowing against the light of the fire. There is no mouth but Jess swears that she can see it grin.

"Well well well, the gang's all here," it sneers- she moves instinctively. There's nothing she can do, no way she could meaningfully stop it, but she moves to stand between it and the kids all the same. Stan barrels out of the cabin, and Johnny- his eyes searching for Ripley, even with the devil himself in full view. "That's a nice banishment circle, _exactly how were you planning on getting me in there, you meatsacks?_ "

"Back off, triangle!" Stan shouts up at it, a finger raised, as if he could- what? Shame that bastard into obeying? And that golden demonic thing laughs, strobing maniacally.

"How you gonna make me!? Your only bet against me was the mindless lump of flesh that you just shrank down to snack-size!" Bill shrills, reaching into the group of collectively snarling Pines and Sanchez children with one whipthin arm, picking up the unfortunate mess that is left of Ripley Savage. She grabs at his hand, groaning- from here it looks like her arms are still burnt and weeping ichor, the multitude of eyes, though small now, are still glowing brightly, her teeth- and there are so, so many of them- still needle-sharp. Jess sees the triangle raise her to its eye, a slick, pointed tongue lolling out from below the eyelid, which itself is ringed with teeth, and from a couple of yards away- but no less recognizable, for an expert like Jess- Ford squares his shoulders and makes what Jess likes to think of as the Quintessential Dumbass Pines Face, glancing over his shoulder at the firepit, gauging the distance before he turns back to Bill.

"Drop her, Cipher! I'm the one you want!" he shouts.

"For fuck's sake, that's the ONE THING-" she hears John explode- which, considering the circumstances, makes sense.

"Your little girlfriend ate my EYE," Bill says, waggling her like a ragdoll. "This is a matter of pride, Fordsy-"

"You want out of here, right? You want out of this cell- and I want you away from my family, away from _my wife_ , off this planet entirely!" Ford bellows up at him, holding out his right hand. "I don't care where you go from here, but you need somebody to take you in so you can get out of here, and I'm the only one with any kind of a working portal generator! You leave this place, you leave the people of this planet alone entirely, and in return you get in my head, just like you wanted!"

"Stanford, do NOT-" Stanley shrieks, just as Jessie feels herself draw up and yell at him, "Stanford Pines, don't you _dare_!"

"That's a **laugh** , Sixer! Why oh _why_ would you think I'd even remotely-" Bill starts, shaking Ripley in his fist with a flurry of flopping, bleeding limbs. Ford opens his mouth to interrupt but it's Mabel who cries out.

"Because you're _faking_! You're _faking_ having a body and you're just trying to hurt people to hurt Grunkle Ford and we all know it _so stop it!_ " she all but wails, her voice cracking.

Bill drops Ripley to the ground with an audible thud; Dipper and Mabel both move like they're trying to reach her, Morty and Summer automatically reaching out to stop them from getting any closer to Bill.

"Last chance, Cipher! You think you can put my family through hell here, but once you burn out all your little toys you're going to be stuck here, trapped, forever!" Ford says, his hand just barely shaking.

"Ford, stop!" Jess calls out, and Ford, looking so like his brothers that Jess just wants to slap his face, gives her a wink.

"Well? Ticktock, Cipher!"

There is a rush of wind as the triangle shrinks down suddenly to man-size, the air closing in around the space left empty by his passing.

"Well, looks like you Pineses had too much help figuring stuff out this time!" Bill says, obscenely cheerful. "Guess I'll have to put an end to that stuff next time!"

Ford's face freezes in a disdainful snarl- he must be about to say something, but Bill's hand meets his in a burst of teal-blue flame, and his face goes slack for a moment as the triangle flattens out into a dense mass of stone, still shaped like Bill but utterly lifeless and benign.

"Oh God, oh no, oh God," Johnny says behind her, and Jess hopes he was wrong, that this wasn't the worst mistake of Stanford's life.

Ford's face lights back up, and he takes a step back.

"I love you, I'm sorry-" he says, and turns, running towards the fire-

-Jess's heart stops as she realizes what he means to do, her hand out. Ripley struggles to sit up, growling softly, her head cocked to one side as she pulls herself painfully to her feet, facing the fire. Very softly, Stan lets out a breath- more a moan of agony than a sigh, but quiet, oh so quiet, "No."

Ford's foot stops at the lip of the firepit, his body contorted awkwardly, his momentum thoroughly arrested, and when he turns, it's like a badly made puppet, jerking his head around to look at his family, teeth bared in too-wide of a smile.

"You didn't really think I'd **let** him do that, did you?" he asks, and maybe in the light of this fire all of their eyes look that gold and bright. He pivots on his single foot, catching himself at a lopsided angle before falling, and faces them fully. "If I knew it would be _that_ easy I would have put a knife to the useless one's throat _thirty years ago_! You really-"

There is surely more, there must be more, but Ripley charges forward- there is a swirl of green light, passing overhead, enveloping her as she barrels towards him- and for just the briefest of moments, Ford- or, well, the thing wearing Ford's face- looks shocked, as if it truly hadn't occurred to him that this could or would happen.

There's no time for anything else. They both disappear into the flames, the kids shrieking in shock and terror, a wail- from who, Jess isn't sure- rising up. The flames gutter- the heat is unbearable, the light is unbearable, and what Jess can see between flashes of brightness is faded, paler, the horror of the past few days being scrubbed clean off the surface of the world. She can see movement where there had been a horror of stone people.

The flames in the pit thin out, die down. It was night, apparently, in the rest of the world- everything is dark but for starlight and moonlight overhead. Stan is standing, numb with horror, his mouth open-

-and then his eyes widen, and he runs. Shermie is already booking it towards them around the edge of the pit.

"Fucking _Moses_!" Stan cries out, and he stops, seven feet west of the hole, his back to the cabin, his face raised, his arms outstretched-

There is a burst of flame in the air, four feet overhead, and two bodies collide with him. Three pairs of glasses go flying as Stan lands hard on the grass, softening the impact as Ford and Ripley- floppy-limbed, visibly injured, definitely unconscious, but definitely _alive_ \- land in a heap, followed by the bodies of a thousand dead fireflies.

The wind is gentle through the trees. Reality stops holding its breath.


End file.
